After you, I will fall in love with someone
two or three hundred years older. Their heart
will be a hole
in the church roof. For them, falling
will be like cutting a telephone wire and watching
it swing
down into the street. If we have sex, I will take
some annual leave
and position our pleasure like I’m setting up
a game of chess, and they will drop an apple
on the floor
to clear all the weather away.
They will tire quickly of my nervousness, as you did.
My hurrying blood. It will not end well.
My lover will cut another wire, and perhaps you
will find me
again, wandering the end of a century, my eyes wide
as coconut halves, my heart the last hole your lace
ties through.

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