No time at all

I’m going to be 40 soon.

Well, I’m not. A few steps into 2017, I’ll be 36. I’m going to be 40 in 2021, God willing and with a following breeze and assuming I don’t have another little moment. 2021 is over 4 years away.

Which is soon, isn’t it? Eventually, 4 years becomes no time at all.

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By and bye

We hug. I feel his top under my arms and I squeeze, slim shoulders, back, solid and real. A kiss on the cheek, a kiss on the forehead.

We lie down, folding lightly into one another; we talk, he strokes his fingers against my nape, I trail mine up and down his thigh, up, and down.

A dream.

I know. I do know. But I don’t care.

I find a gameboy and on it we watch Mark’s new TV drama; next to us the music school is evacuating, a fire. Kids calmly walk out, rescuing tubas, saving music.

I start to pull away, I get worried sometimes that I’m being too clingy, I try to pull away but he gently pulls me back and I feel again him against me, my hand on his thigh, his arm around my back, warm and real.

I know, I do know. It’s OK.

We stay, a while. Lying on the grass, on the sand, the rocks, the pavement. We lie, by Charing Cross, by the sea, by Television Centre and by and by…

I have to go, we hug, we part but I can’t part, not yet. Our fingers still entwine, and I kiss them, soft and warm and real against my lips, I have to go, I know, warm duvet and pillow and birdsong.

I know. I do know.

It’s OK.


Screaming; I woke myself up screaming.

I never used to, this is new, new these past few months; this makes three times now I’ve woken myself up by screaming. Full on screaming.

I’m alone. Alone in the attic of an empty house, in the dark.

I’m afraid.

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