In the ritual of unpairing,

Someone must be first to leave

But it’s always you, hurrying, unstaring,

Narrowing your shoulders through iron gates,

Careless of snail-brown London paving,

Or shellac seas at airports and train stations.

Bow-legged strutting from football days,

Suckling on phone and fag. Leaving our pillow,

How quickly the rose-gold bowl of your head fills

With the day’s grain swelling haze till

Once more you are a thick-necked, cropped cockerel,

Followed by strangers who distend your image.

Stiff-tailed, texting, scrolling, fidgeting

Blue ears, half-closed eyes pitching with

The midges of today’s news, old songs, entrances, exits.

“Oh, isn’t she from The Antiques Roadshow?”

Your Followers don’t love you but you don’t want love just

To be Followed.

Twittering in transit, you go travellating in smooth

Black headphones so nothing maims,

Holds, snaps, catches, distills, or remains –

And never, once, looking back at me.

 

Soma Ghosh