a girl sews her seams up herself,
brushes clouds of grit from her knees,
the broken glass catches the light,
like a song in her hair,
the road wobbles, but her bottom lip is stoic,
her smile is a neon-lit question mark,
when the plaster rains from her ceiling,
and threatens the kitchen utensils,
she takes the 76 to solihull like a gazelle knows
the safest corners of its veld, saturdays hidden
in her back pocket, a gun to pass the time,
but blows the hours from her lungs,
through a shade of bitter menthol.

a boy lives inside a postbox,
and with each letter a girl opens,
sends the pull of a muscle per tear,
he writes each secret about his body,
tucked inside the curling uncertainty of a c,
a pragmatic girl mops shards of enamel,
cells blow back, undelivered and she takes
the bus to solihull and picks up a parcel from
the post office, places it under the stairs,
she sews hairline cracks in the door together.
the leaves she pressed last autumn stumble
into her letterbox, the spines of books she read
thump like wind-swept tree branches onto the doormat,
sent by a boy living inside a postbox.