Your back had the same black shine as a beetle's shell. I watched it, metres ahead of me as the afternoon sunlight twitched on & off of you. The swish of your hair, the clothes, the hefty walk all say it isn't you at all. Nonetheless [bad word] and the clatter of my inappropriate shoes on the asphalt spurs me on. I'm stung by the distance between us - the lamp - posts ans clumps of litter that spring like flowers from the pavement. Hollow air clangs in my lungs. Sick and dizzy I find I've caught up with someone who's not you at all, and I'm not in least bit surprised.
*
Months of working through strangers whose eyes or smile or voice reminds me a little of yours. Their spit has the taste of slightly you milk inside of my mouth. I've made for you a pedestral that lifts you higher up the harder I try and knock you down.