I touch the frosted windows
The tips of my fingers Numbed
Against the rest of my bodies ache.
Trekking across a landscape of sand only too reach my bed post,
A trek wired with Abandoned clothes I wore earlier that day.
Disarrayed with another’s.
Forgien objects as unwelcoming as Boris Johnson upon Election Day.
I know my script well,
The pleasure is easy too mimic
It comes as casual and the batting of a butterflies wing - and as frequent.
A night spent stuck on repeat just with different bodies
But the same hollow faces
Trading his pleasure
For a moment of my comfort
And I think
What is his name?