There are seven degrees
Between us, dear, me
Here and you there, our
Pedigrees identical but the       
Messages we took different
As chalk and cheese.  Now
Geography is the thing, a
Piscean in the deep and murky
Depths of the north, your
Split personality happy and
Too hard at work on a
Brighton coastline that is
Strange - southern
Seas more benign than
This town's incessant rain.
I am housebound with my
Injuries, batting ghosts into
Their past presence, stringing
Bits together to make a
Whole that walks and talks
Sans pain.  Tonight I have been
Frivolous: I have cut and
Shaped my nails and painted
Them outrageous red. I
Have made my bed and
Lie in it, trying to feel at ease.
How different our destinies - the
Wooden figures in a weatherclock -
I walk out in sombre gear,
You are smiling, never near but
Always placed in sun needing
Neither wings nor prayer.
My smiling man I love you
Dear, mercurial as our lives'
Divergent temperatures.
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