...some words.

If I were still somewhere else, with the light dancing pink over the pale heathered moor, would you then love me still, still? Your face would bring me comfort now, though it is the face for which I mourn. Its animation would distract from the sickening stillness within. I, like the moor. What bound you to me, your hand to the stretch of my neck; your finger nails to the crook of my elbow. I have very soft skin. When I was young, when was I young?, it felt too much; poor skin, it saw everything- but, much worse, felt it too. Softened, worn, worn softened. Broken in like boot leather.

Quickened blood rushes round wrists, round, round those skinny blue turning points; trees of you within yourself.

Now I feel for the words. I feel for my skin; soft worn skin, keeper of the inevitable flesh; bearer of my first to last first to last breath. Soft worn words the same; over used over used over used and crippled lame- lopsided they approach down the corridor.

Key’s in the lock.

There’s someone in.

Someone inside.

Press your ear, the left one, against the dry of door. Your face, now an empty oval invitation, stares down the corridor, no one else comes, no one stirs the air on the other side of the door- you pull away. Inhale. Think not of her but me. That last piece of string tautens to breaking point, and, it, snap snap snaps & is gone.

Back down the corridor, quickened pace, till, running- you turn the final corner to the lobby and the door is pushed open by her not I. Not I. Not I- never again that. In her arms you feel so great a swell of love, so great a swell of need that you wish to open up around her and carry her, inside yourself across any battlefield.

Behind the door down the corridor, out of the sun, blinds heavy green- down down drown, the air finally stirs with my scattered breath. 

...