i am distant now, remote from you,
as the winding lines of fence and hedgerow,
they mark the time, each step away,
as the single track,
remains a line on my cheek.
if i had fly’s eyes then maybe i would see,
how easy it is to shed you like a skin,
because i only see one thing.
there are thin streams of colour coming in,
as thin as ghosts, as your breath
on the cold screen.
here on the map, i stand like a pin,
all thoughts out,
a telegraph to bring you back in.
to be solo, to be alone,
just me and the frequencies,