Bonding

The swagger of a satisfied man
hangs around him like a tightening noose.
Red and yellow blur together and
remind me of happier times.

Black and blur denim. Short skirts. High heels. Massive distance.
Confident. Conspiritor. Colleague.

Ebbed away as water slides down the tiles.
The call. There is nothing left to say.
Inevitable- the drunken text
and the misplaced 'I',
the lack of spaces and the gaping hole.

The weekends loom ahead and,
slowly,
like permed hair, unravel.
The 'make up' on less and less.
Apparently, things are stable now.

The clock is full of the syrup
which drips from your tongue,
that I was force fed.

The skater. My pixie. The manager. Fear. Faye.

And now he is AWOL
and I don't know what to feel.