I didn’t recognise the boy

in the neighbouring lane at first,

his lean tanned arms

the length of my breath.

Geometric tiles 

on the other side of me, 

some kind of blue.

He’d bleached his hair since school.

At fourteen, we didn’t know how

it sticks to you, gets in your throat.

The place we grew up

he left behind

without saying goodbye.

On my knees in a bathroom stall

I’ve cruised other men, become beautiful,

my body slender

with technique.

How he moved back then

with the same blonde grace

exhibited now.

A son of the art teacher,

the mole on his neck.