On eat and fag
break at
reparation scheme,
the others message
on phones with
fast fingers.
Everyone do swapping of numbers.
Not me.
I go to pond and
swap sweets with swans.
I hear foot crunching on stone.
‘Hey, you didn’t give me your number,’ Jess say.
My breath become heavy weight.
‘You want my number?’ I say.
‘Yeah, what is it?’
I tell it to her,
and
she tell hers to me.
And I photograph hers in my head.