I heard you’re here next weekend. Suddenly resolve collapsed to daydreams of you in white, toasting futures without mud on your cotton suit. You’d stayed up all night bleaching its stains. Did he ever see them? Or is that why he’s here - someone you don’t need honesty with. Someone new to pretend you’re someone else with. You and your blank canvasses. My tapestry might be scrappy, clumsy, frayed even and moth-eaten, but you – you’re a library of notebooks, each smudged once on every page before you turned over a new leaf, frustrated by your mark on the virgin sheet.