You are an hour
and 21 minutes

twelve seconds of
eye contact

a brushed hip

I’d have stopped then
been happy for that

and a kiss

now you’re folded in
the blank pages
of before, and before
then

a plectrum of fictionalised fascination
an infatuation

to pluck my own heartstrings
to prove they’re still strung

but it’s okay because I’m dull
and you’re contrived

or at least that’s how it
plays out

now go back to being perfect
where I can easily find you