by Paula Grenside
The night is mad; it twists bed sheets around my arms and legs while my heart sizzles in boiling blood. My thoughts run through the room, bump against the wall, bounce, jump out the window to reach him wherever he is.
"All right, love. Nothing I can do if you prefer to bury your face in a walking dairy, or two turgid melons that can crack your head in a breath. You said you loved white hills, where berries bloomed like cherries on whipped cream. You did not lie on taste, and searched for reservoirs of milk. All tight, love. Yet, were I you, I wouldn't fly in the same plane with her. Pressurization does not match well with swollen skin. The chance may be that breakfast tastes of oil and rubber with silicone flakes that float in your morning cup."
The night is mad; my shouts drown in the roar of planes taking off.
Copyright © 2000 Paula Grenside