There was a photo of us
our hands in bed
one rare occasion
we were on our own

I deleted it though
out of fear, not anger
while in Ferghana
spending Christmas alone.

I was sat in my kitchen
the window cracked open
cigarette in hand
looking at my phone

I’d met some teenagers
eager to speak English
they’d added me on insta
as we parted to go home

They began to like my photos
and as red hearts multiplied
I remembered your hand in mine
and let out a slow groan

A gay man had been attacked
streets and weeks from where I sat
a broken glass bottle
cutting flesh to bone

So I rushed to erase
that trace of you and me
but if I was too slow
was a coiled unknown