The swish of the 440’s tyres. Two chords on my headphones.
I am now from elsewhere:
No map for this place
All the metaphors raise their hands
Me, miss, me, miss, me
Fortnightly my heart leaps
A leveret in a dusk-silent field.
We hold each other through the night.
I think I have new skin.
On the 440 back, I/nomad
drink water from your bedsit/oasis
You aren’t lost, say the metaphors
This is what being found feels like
This elsewhere’s just
The place where love is