I am trying to conquer a fear of living.
And a fear of being served coffee
that is too strong for my palate.
You tell me that I will mature,
but I am running out of time.
Like a vulnerable hourglass with fine,
pink sand.
Running.
I wonder why I can always seem to write
when I don’t have a pen.
Sometimes I try to make the indentations of words
with my thumbnail
on the back of a shopping docket.
But I can never quite make them out
when I get home.
They are obliterated by inky purple letters.
Pink lady apples.
And raspberry jelly.
I wonder how long it takes
you to write something.
And if you have ever written anything
on the back of a shopper docket.
And then I remember that you’ve done everything.
So I start wondering how my strapless bra stays up,
and forget you and your tantalising world of connections.
It’s only 8.30 and we are approaching the winter solstice.
But I am already tired.
Can you capture death on the insides of your eyelids?
Or does it creep along your cheekbones?
Steathily.
In maroon velvet shoes.
And glossy stockings.