It’s like you have always been there,
tucked away in an inside pocket
of the back of my mind,
a fidget item for these hands to find
when my head disconnects,
under anaesthetic from the neck down
though I’d have rather felt the burning sensation
from your quick disintegration,
the pain as you were wiped away.
Now a small dressing covers all that remains
of how you stuck to my skin.
Nurture wins the genetics debate
for I won’t miss your DNA,
my colours never ran in the family.