Take note, keep your heads aloft that great height, and do not mind the sun for it tends to burn.
It doesn't turn, rather we do into various things, though not the things we love the most.
We thought and still do when we can, 
etch small markings on every third rock we pass, then we pass (and we pass on what's been spared for them to carry, wear around their necks until the skin's rubbed raw).
Take note; now you are in transition.

To the front and back, holding our hands behind our backs
The both of us moved unsure of what wouldn’t be appropriate.
You could use me for certain things, and should
You remember not to let on your intentions I would give you a shameless
Kiss on the lips
And let you pull me around a corner,
Where we could undress out of sight before you go.

The bulk of the intelligent thoughts you spoke out loud ranged from how big you thought my bed was, to whether or not all the time I spent riding my mountain bike had toned my thighs.
I gave an indistinct, murmured answer and you went ahead and felt for yourself.
Not yet, you said, and pursed your lips.
Your friend had been impatient to leave all night, and you all did eventually, before the birds started to sing.
I was glad for sleep after that, and I did not dream of you.

Steely grins to the edge of the bed, from me to you. You seem to know this is not what I pictured; you flex, crease your brow and make a fist as you stretch. There's nothing you could make me believe.

A notice for the rest is being written on the back of a shop receipt; for food we've had to make do with bread and cheese, and nothing to drink (we never did get drunk together).
This is an easy kind of sadness. No speeches, no fanfare. Neither of us are dressed for that.

Today I crawled back to you on all fours, knocked hard until our old door gave way. In the dust sat the used furniture, turned upside down, and moth-eaten curtains that barely kept out the light.
You were there too, thick and portly now, having been feeding on the little things that used to eat through our wooden floors.
You did not know me. You hardly looked up when I called your name.
So, I closed the door and went back home.

Is it this, old miss, you've been looking for, past the fables from the start?
The gold, the grey and the stubbled fray, all but ruined by his heart.
Is it this, old miss, (just an inch too soon) that you've scored into your mind?
To replace the taste of old Jim's face, by now aged beyond recall.