You’re zigzag lightning behind shut eyelids
even when fatigue knocks all time sideways
you’re the shape of sheets scrunched up on the bed
the meaning in a sudden turn of phrase
as it comes to mind and then to the lips.
You’re a storm sweeping in from the north west,
and a threadbare cushion carelessly left
on the sofa, flat against the armrest.
You’re in the contact list, the recent logs,
in a thousand texts and captioned photos
in printed words, images framed in scallops,
wreathed in the past - sheer tissues of long ago
vague tangible online and off, in routine
everyday and everynight and in between.