A dozen dead-ends later
I found my better self,
Hiding in reflections,
Or somewhere on your shelf.
He blanked me at our café,
Your hand upon his arm;
He filled our box at Othello;
I hammered a theatre alarm.
Infused by choice and chances,
Gods have quirks of humour;
I did not know I’d been stolen
Until I read those rumours
In headlines in his grasp.
I hemorrhaged poems and songs,
He’s gone researching romance
And my cortège won’t be long.
