Angles

For the first time there is nothing
to note about the placement of our limbs.
Your body doesn’t linger at 90 degree’s,
threatening to close around me.
It is no longer the centre of every thought,
the track of each breathe spiralling in constant limbo.
Your silhouette is not the radius holding me in place.
Your body isn’t the reason that I get up in the mornings.
It is just a collection of angles in the distance
mapping how far I’ve come.