Twisted sheets,
Egyptian cotton,
pin me.
my body
collected, studied,
by a face
I don’t know,
Its owner has been
here all night.
Has pressed
his weight
into the hollow
of the bed,
and me
still as a fawn
in the sights.
He stretches,
hung over,
brushes the nape
of my neck,
wants breakfast,
and my number,
like it never happened.

I went for a drink.

Yesterday …
I struggle …

Yesterday …
I struggle …
to remember.

By the poet Cath Campbell.

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