I imagine you’re asleep, an intoxicated slumber with your arm flung out across some nobodies naked breasts,your own just covered by your favourite t-shirt.
I too lie in my bed, my sheets cold – my sleep evasive, a paper heart stuck fast to my left shoulder-blade.
A destiny of diagonal sleeping with no feet to kick me away or arms to pull me close or steal my covers.
I dream of being woken by heavy breathing – but all that ever wakes me is a heavy silence.
Your arms are always full. You have free choice it seems, as soon as one escapes or is pushed free, there is another in the wings ready to crawl between your sheets and into your arms.
My arms are empty, only ever filled by piles of smooth cold pebbles or ripe sour limes, moist with a morning dew.
I cannot take comfort in pebbles and limes. No lake to skim them across, no gin to sink them in.
So I spend my sleepless nights crushing limes with sea smoothed pebbles and letting the juice dribble down my arms and over the cuts left by paper hearts.
While you spend your nights taking your own papers hearts and sticking them to any girl you can find – or so it seems. Marking your own carefully – there are no cuts on your hands.
The paste you use is no longer the eternal kind, it’s a temporary solution, that washes off in water.
You should have changed your glue years ago.
written between two continents – written between two worlds – written between two lives – written between two moods