It’s 9:01 PM, August 1.
Don McLean’s American Pie is playing and I’m nodding my head to it. You’re not paying any attention to the music.
You are staring at the cream wall.
What a peculiar life you must lead in your head.
I tell you to lie down if you’re tired. ‘ It’s fine’ you tell me and I have to believe it is.
The music is reflecting off the wall, a sombre rhythm of its own.
You are unbelievably cute, you hate it when people say that to you, so I’m going to keep that in my heart.
With cigarette in one hand, I try to clear the bed hoping that you would sit next to me. But you stare at your fingers, that is okay too.
I almost put my ink pen inside my mouth instead of the cigarette. I laugh at myself. Life is funny.
I hope the smoke from my lungs reaches you, it’s a whimper for company.