AWOLove

A torso in the Thames. A
second-body-has-been-found-
in-Boulters-lock-police-
suspect “Mr. and Mrs. () were due to arrive
at their gîte at midday but failed…”

We have invented
The Missing Person.
Life has become one long orienteering exercise.
I must note weather, leave co-ordinates,
tell a significant other my
ETA.

Skin crawls.
Gut marginally faster.
If I started today, swam/flew
I’d be found out.

Suppose I dematerialised ptoossh!
from the middle of Boots, Henley
and rematerialised,

                         (wet,
but unharmed,
humidity smushing petticoats
against my thighs, legs greasy with
longing, toes freshly done
in Foxglove just for you — — — they’d

have me.
It’s easier bein’ dead.
Mourners messy,
children’s lives wrecked,
“…such a waste,”
file complete.

I’m obviously having none
of it. I’ll find you somehow
if it kills me. Even
if I have to sniff you, 1 in a million.

You know where I am: send
sweat.