When you reach that age. You wake up in the night and youre not there. Next to you is everything youve been and a photocopy of your birth certificate. The pillows are made from heads, the bed is a beach of skin. You count the lines in your hand then hitch a ride into the day. The people across the street see you naked every morning but never buy you a croissant. Bastards. Maybe you should shriek at them in French but you dont know French so you just smile and wave, striped towel an arm length away. Baked goods weigh you down anyway, youll run tomorrow for sure, there are legs down there somewhere. The joggers round here run faster near the cafe, slowest when they dream. In the mirror you are ageless or made from glass. If you drank more water youd drink less beer. The garbage trucks swallow another bin, you eat another piece of bread. The older you get the more you admire smokers for venturing into the known. One thing you have learnt: the people who breathe the slowest make up for it in other ways. 8am. There is hair in your eyes and it isnt yours. You cant believe you are breathing in hair, dark and alive. Then it is gone and you put on the pants, knowing the work is never far away.
Posted on: Mon, 07 Apr 2014 05:43:13 +0000
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