Loose Endings

Piccadilly Line, November 2004

Grey winter morning, car parks, West London factory roofs — all adventures end somewhere like this.

If you walk away from it, it’s a landing. When did I know you wouldn’t pull out?

Everything is ending here: the handset with the number in it you won’t answer. Is it torn at your end now or out of me?

The books I can’t return

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