It\u2019s been months since I\u2019ve heard from you
\nand I\u2019m beginning to forget which side on the continent
\nyou decide to dress each morning. Last time I saw you
\nthere was still hair on your head but I suppose
\nyou\u2019re old now and nothing lasts forever.
\nI think about if I saw you again, how you might look
\nlike you\u2019re suffering from a terrible illness:
\nskin all rough like filter coffee paper, eyes sunken into the skull
\nas if trying to look inward. In this image I have
\nyou\u2019re bald, forehead wrinkled, happiness retreating
\nwith the hairline. But what do I know!
\nYou might be like one of those Hollywood old guys
\nwhose faces cheat death, muscles growing
\nlike their property portfolio. I bet you know the sun
\nall year round and have a swimming pool,
\nyou son of a bitch, a swimming pool that you swim laps in
\nto keep fit, drowning back cocktails with some girl
\nhalf your age who sparkles on your arm. I bet
\nyou only drink drinks with those little umbrellas in.
\nI bet you have patio furniture that you can\u2019t find
\nin a catalogue. All I want to tell you is all that\u2019s ever
\nhappened. People used to tell me we look alike.
\nI might never know if they were lying. <\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Sometimes I imagine you’re dead when they ask It\u2019s got to the point where I\u2019m no longer sure Look-a-Like It\u2019s been months since I\u2019ve heard from you and I\u2019m beginning to forget which side on the continent you decide to dress each morning. Last time I saw you there was still hair on your head but I suppose you\u2019re old now and nothing lasts forever. I think about if I saw you again, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":152,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[333,334],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\nfor my tram ticket. It’s harsh, I know:
\nthe faked call I get from a family member
\nor police officer, the news of your death handed to me
\nlike a cocked shotgun. Can I see your ticket?<\/em>
\nhe\u2019ll say, and I\u2019ll sit there, deaf with grief.
\nI can cry on cue now, my eyes, apples
\nbobbing in water. I\u2019m wracked with guilt when the conductor,
\nonce happy in his cap, stands ham-fisted
\nat my tears, his smile a broken wishbone. <\/p>\n
\nwhy it is I\u2019m crying: if it\u2019s this
\npantomime death I\u2019ve constructed in my head for you,
\na sort of cirque du soleil of misfortune;
\nif it\u2019s the conductor\u2019s face channelling
\nmy heartache like a circuit; or if it\u2019s these strangers
\nsharing the seats in front of me, their closeness
\na cut throat razor. And all this for the sake
\nof a free ride. I\u2019m not sure I could make it through the day
\notherwise, never mind all the way to Attercliffe.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"