Here, beneath my ribs; underneath the chewy strands, my lanky ambitions, naked without sense. As a finger held to thumb, between a petalled gift. Kiss each inch of me. Make me sigh. Roll me only when I'm dead.
I feel it in my crooked toes and in my wonky two front teeth. I see it where my clothes are worn and in the gaps around my shoes. I notice it in others too; in the little signs of wear and tear, in the slog of getting old. Poor is all wrapped up cold, inside a shabby winter coat. You can try to hide it while you're living or **** it like a sugared treat.
Just before a falling, the tilted horizon decides it must be right. Perhaps it's pride? The lilting ship is oblivious to each stumbled embrace. The breathless drunk, stands leaning on a brick wall. I recognise it in solitudes. I heard it many times; between a dozen tolls of midnight's bells.
I'm unnerved by hearing flattery. Did I invite it with my neediness or coax it with a smile? Perhaps the words that follow are less appetising fare. Or is the flatterer expecting reassurances in return? Unless I'm sure it's quite sincere, I'm left unsure what to say. I add a simple "Thank you" in the hope it goes away.
I have drifted slightly from my steady orbit. Just far enough to see myself still living out my usual life, whilst I watch; a casual ghost. I catch few words from all my conversations. None of the meaning. Nodding. Without. Really listening to the steady falling of the universe.
The parks are all much duller now the children have gone home. No little shrieks to spike the peaks of every skybound swing. No swipe of vibrant colour from the roundabout's slow spin. Instead the frames of metal poles lay dormant under coats of paint so thick and black that even crows can hardly dare to perch. Outside the old dogs eye us both. Their long stares soaked with yearning for the real wilderness.