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.