Clapham

Imperfect;
My electric skin feels your track,
with your dotted eyes to quietly watch
but my super senses know you’re back
to see if it’s me and work me out.
This is me, you think I’ve changed?
writing words aimed just for you
with all the syllables specially arranged
by pretty rules I’ve barely caught.
The engine blabs the newest page
then seconds later you hit my stats
and I trap your spying in my cage
which churn out later and I’m surprised.

Perfect; (will this please you more?)
I lingered lonely on a train
took the tube in the pouring rain
got there first and, door unlocked
always first, but first to stop.
Once a week the loudest loafer
cracked-glass eyes on the chill-out sofa
full of promise but no commitment
I failed to please and caused resentment.
But final straws and provocation
were idiots with incantation
who, if a prophet it was missed
his words so foreign and they kissed
the both of us at once goodnight
his a drama, and mine a flight.

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