i will be a piece of paper
torn two by two, twisting in
the sudden winter weather. you
will be cold hands clinging to
shells of cigarettes
burnt-out, blunt.

too much time alone
never seems too much,
spent under the archways
with sandwiches, hot drinks
& newspapers. forgetting
which way to move, how to
play these cards right.

does this change make a difference?
only in ways to keep back my fears
it seems rather braver, like
something you'd do.