Underneath a trestle table, the sagging boxes sit; their edges gently tearing with the leaning piles of books. And every book is bending. And every page is worn. And the words inside are cluttered now - like the mind that stacked them there.
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.