so much to do, so little time.
and yet, there’s always time to feel. there must be, else what do we life for? not this sense of helpless continuity, surely?
so i run out of the house to take in the exhaust fumes of the passing cars, i slam the door and run to see you again. as if i hadn’t seen you yesterday.
your kiss reeks of aftershave, just like i want it to. you know. that’s why you drench yourself in it. for me.
and i hold your hand in mine. your skin has tanned over the summer. mine hasn’t. not with this rain. and we are no longer the same shade.
and do you remember how amazed you were at the way the pigments of your skin mirrored those of mine? when the tan washes away, the skin on our hands will be the same colour again. that on our bodies still is.
and i look at your nails. it’s merely an impulse. yes, they are imperfect but you no longer bite them. i put a stop to that.
something about them reminds me of almonds.
we walked the streets and read the paper. daily telegraph. in the library where we had our first kiss. friday the fifth of february. twenty-nine fridays ago.
obesity's pushing NHS over the edge. tiger woods' ex wife got his millions. the "mistresses" was not a hit for all.
the headlines were predictable, but with you by my side i oohhed and aahhed.
with you the world’s a different place.
but i’ve come back home now and there’s so much to do, so little time.