I Know Who You Texted Last Summer

Your phone is an easy-to-open vault:
a service-model-colt-coloured piece of
metal that hides your secrets voluntarily.

Twist the code and key in the numbers
and in-there on separate iron shelves
shall sit your saved messages and deleted photos
from family gone and parents present.
Ex-lover texts that once made sense have now melted
away like every Oxo cube you’ve ever used and mixed up.
You’ll discover conversations that bruised your
slightly-confused-what-should-I-say-next younger self,
and there at the back there’ll be conversations and
late night talks that ultimately made you, you:
a somewhat collage and mood board of ideas you wanted to be true.
Air-brushed ideals and allegations you once alleged when you were
16 are now binary coordinates on a map you’ve
long forgotten existed.

Nobody knew of the shit they were spouting:
it’s ephemeral remember, just a bit of virtual shouting,
but when we’re taken early in an accident
on a journey we take almost daily, zipped up in brown-tarpaulin
bag ready for the mortuary, the first
place they’ll probe for evidence is in our
service-model-colt-coloured vault
to be found in our right-hand-side pocket.

With rubber fingers and cameras that flare
its contents will be sort-through,
laid atop a table, unpackaged and bare.
Service providers will be contacted so to
extract every character you ever typed,
every character you ever pretended to be,
placing each new piece of evidence
on an axis that plots lovers and losses
against friends and new bosses,
culminating in a graph with a steady trend of,
this was him in 2010.