He asked if I still remembered him

with a voice once flavoured with adventure

and a brush of pixel kisses.

Of course I did. Lacerated memories

of a weekend in the Yorkshire Dales

scrape skin from bruised apples

And push pins into a wilted cork.

Egotist. Even now

You circle jerk snowflakes

destined to land on desperate tongues

then melt away.

I wanted them all. Still do.

All that remains is mush.