Not to mention your new relaxed sink into your real-self

smile, skin blooms in the flash; hair’s grown four

inches; or so it looks in that photo ( and when I saw you);

body, a slink of the summer one. You seem content,

sure, it couldn’t be better, well, what could be,

this is how it should be; rumours of white skirts

on the golfing pub-crawl, thankfully, unfounded.

You’re in crop-legs, Pringle jumper and cap.

And there’s a rack of all the shot-glasses,

thirty or forty, tipped back in one. Coming home,

weird, like being on holiday now the other place’s

home. Boyfriends of flat-mates feature . That tall

golden guy holds you lightly. Can’t tell whether

or not it’s just for the photo: a fragment of that night.

I’d already marked him down as the one.

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