Second Person

I airbrush the phone off your selective listening machine, and transform that outfit, I never saw, into a concrete memory. I tint your lips redder, so they make you blush, and blend your knots into manes of locks which you want, to be stroked by me. I crop space so you’re closer, and hyperbolize shadows of your limbs, so the sunlight, which I make, paints you skin colour. I increase my exposure, so you can see me if you open your eyes, and I blur my illuminated image, so you’ve already seen me. I contrast your skin tone, so you are all alone, and I leave my second person, in a self-mirrored memory, so I can start my life again.