Memoirs of a Life Unlived

Running for the bus on weathered joints, conscious they could pop at any point - cushioned by the warm and spongy grass, thinking of your tired demanding heart. Living is a thing they cast at you - saturated postcard greens and blues. Suddenly a scene of war and strife, fleeing from the cross hairs all your life. Swaying like the palms you check your change, praying you're beyond the snipers' range. As you reach the kerb the driver's eyes never deviate. The bus rolls by.

His lips clamp around the straw like there's petrol to drain. She knows he's glancing at her - both are - despite that solid staring at their phones we all do. The part of her that knows they care she's cordoned off; she'll need the space. Not tragic, because most come back, but sad because this table scene is sure to be the best they'll have for years.

Handful of sweets like teeth launched straight into his open mouth makes you wince: head flipped back -  trilby glued on - and all over in no time. Back to the broken nose you first saw; and the glare. Looking around won't help -  how nerves work is his living. His thoughts aren't many but they're stark and made for this. Have to hope something happens out of a dream: He loses interest and leaves. Close your eyes like life won't end.

His face is monstrous. Locked beneath the surface, Reshaping constantly, He seems about to speak. Patches of oil slip past And blur his features. Sunlight heaves colours From the monochrome. You wonder who loved him. Did he ever wake From this dream? His hair swims, beautiful.