My bones have changed.
I can’t work it out.
But my bones have changed.
There’s a little orange light behind my blinds.
I can feel gentle air puffing my face from the gap in my window.
Inside my head sits my brain.
It tells me stuff.
It winds me up.
I have been giving up bit-by-bit.
I have loved a woman, a new woman.
I am not myself.
But in-between when I have slept I have dreamed.
I have dreamed of fun things.
I have dreamed of river adventures.
Then I wake up and I feel sick and dizzy.
This is not my dream.
But the air is rich and fresh.
And I am still in love with life.
The curve of the bumper exaggerates the sunrise.
Then it gets grey
and the light fades down
from ceiling to floor.
My chest is wet.
From spit and sweat.
Somebody loves me.
But I don’t recognise them anymore.