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He combs the Covent Garden cafes, pockets full of pens and postcards
looking for girls whose poems feature
the colour of their hearts, their favourite moment of sky.

He teas them, buys cream cakes,
proffers tepid tap water as if it were saliva.
He asks them if they like their body, if they’ve ever really loved,
when the last time was, they gripped a table and asked everyone to be quiet.

If they fit, they fall right in
amongst the Bics and the pictures.
And there he holds them
until home,

when, spread like milk across his bed,
he follows logic from shoulder
to neck
to ear

where mouth open and dry
he hovers and says:
‘you know,
you’re no one’s favourite person.’