At Seaside, in the beginning 
you filled all of the gaps 
of my short history. Memorised
my time of birth with the ocean 
at our backs, tucked wet ropes 
of hair behind my ears & said 
what a silly little name. The middle
is here, between idyll & where
I no longer know what you eat 
for lunch. Time is an erasure
of banal curiosities. At first, the love 
for the lover alone & then the love 
for retreading golden coasts & finally, 
this sweet hurt in recapitulating  
the unrecoverable. I understand
perfectly, the fine line between
ripened & compost heap; the boring
body with its apricot scent—I become 
something new to labour over 
& what did work stamp on you, but a lack 
of desire for anything but Sunday 
morning & for not being reminded
of your lack of desire for anything else.