Tcr

[Campbellcore]

You told me you looked up at the stars that night.
The softened fabric of your shoes kissed the abrasive asphalt beneath you
as you sat open legged on that pavement.
Childlike was the state that your drunken somber lulled you to,
childlike in your hope
that I was looking up at the stars in that moment with you.

Just a couple miles of the sore stretch of tcr was the distance between us,
an open wound traced in to the dry skin of London’s sleeping body
in those early hours of a Wednesday morning.
Your fingers.
Like curious extensions of your unscathed desire,
they could trace the wound back down tcr in its entirety,
prodding into the exposed flesh for any sign of my return,
Only to find the bandages I’d left there,
abandoned hostages tormented by blood as it weeps from the gauze.

I didn’t look at the stars that night.
I was probably messaging that other guy.
I open his snap, his shirtless picture exposing his body like a butchers cut of quality flesh.
Then I half swipe your message,
its tender wording kissing my asphalt heart,
its crevices prodded into by your desire for my return.
You find nothing but a saturated gauze stuffed into my wound,
each of its filaments permeated by the silent weeps of my heart’s beating.

I message the other guy back.
You look big, I text him.
Your chat gets bandaged over.
Clear from conversation feed.

[SP Singer]

Hello Campbellcore, and welcome here.

I appreciate most in this poem about a relationship, how easy you've made it to extrapolate to other people and relationships. I feel sure that I know the two characters in the poem, though I don't. You've conveyed a sweet authenticity in the one described by the N-- the one looking at stars, and the N who is somehow wounded/damaged and more interested in flesh/muscles/bigness, at least on this very early Wednesday morning. You've left enough clear space within the descriptions for me to start arguing with myself about who more closely, these people are, especially the N, who seems both wildly sensitive, and a huge asshole. I can wonder about his self-characterization, wonder if he knows himself. I can try to protect him from being so harsh in how he sees himself.
Highlights for me are the posturing of the man described on the pavement, open legged, and his soft shoes kissing abrasive asphalt. I also very much like the description of the distance within the Tcr, the couple of miles between N and drunken stargazer, as being a body itself, with dry skin.

3 lines in your poem may need more work: L4, at the very least you should lose "that". But the ending is off for me as well. Typically the end of lines need to be the strongest parts, as you may know. I can get the sense here, but it is awkwardly put.
In the same with the last line of S2, I think the tone becomes melodramatic with both hostages and tormented, as well as weeps. Maybe cut back a bit.
The last Line of S3: silent weeps strikes wrong, not aided by heart's beating.
Perhaps in the two last lines mentioned, you were trying to counterbalance the N's seeming coldness/harshness, or maybe exaggerate it, or somehow outline more about it. Whatever you were up to, these lines stand out away from the poem's otherwise very enjoyable scene and person painting.
I like your keeping to the physical wounding throughout the poem, and especially the chat getting bandaged over in the penultimate line.
The last line is fine, but a bit of a letdown, perhaps intended. I could take or leave, probably because it doesn't give me much. I already know the N is a wounded type of jerk, though I still want to save him, probably just like the guy who looks at stars and wants to be joined in such pursuit.

You use desire twice. I think once would be enough properly placed. It's such a strong word, possibly melodramatic if not very carefully used.

I generally like your use of lines and space, but suggest a thorough scan to see what more you can cut without losing anything. I'm not so sure that: your fingers
deserves its very own line. Perhaps if you added just the right modifier it could work.

I wonder about the second to last line of S3, logistically. I think the meaning is that the stargazer gets no text reply from heartless N, but if so, then he he also doesn't received/find: nothing but a saturated gauze stuffed into the N's wound. Of course this is artistic license, but maybe too much.

I am still very much learning the lesson, that a few strong words, hooked together novelly, can convey much more than a hundred used loosely.

I'm left wanting to know a bit more about the N, wanting him to push past an easy assessment of himself as a damaged asshole. He is much kinder in how he sees the stargazer. Such kindness could turn inward too, especially if he is so wounded/ so in need.

Thanks for this and the best of revision. I hope you keep with it. SP