Reflection of car in window.
You claim things that are not true, and I grow bored, wearing channels into the bedroom carpet. I have rearranged everything again, turned furniture upon angles, just in case anyone thought to map upon entering the room. I am confounder.
In distance, person crosses road.
Pillar to post, the heady rise of expectation, this neutrality of commitance. We build upon fallacies you and I, developers of beautiful lies. No one knows your name. If only you knew, if only they knew.
Automatic doors slide open without sensing movement.
You are taken as an abstract, a quaint unknown but I know you too well. We were perfect.
Red sided truck, incomprehensible foot-high letters.
I shall distract them with bouts of illness, and stories of foreign beds, I shall even try extinction and marriage as smokescreens. They are rendered laughable by the Wednesday afternoon, a fully bright grey. This city, the accidental capital.
Two parallel seagulls in flight.
Explanations, requests for spreadsheets, the noise of an invoice; all of this is settled. The job is a waiting. The friends are occupied. The pen is laid, half crooked, propped against the yellowing novel, the novel that I had promised great things to.
There really is nothing else moving.
Last night’s table, tomorrow’s intoxicant, this writing is like dead water and the closest you and I come to talking is an apology.