A sawtooth comb for newly brittle hair.
Almost raking the wet curls.
A mind sulking over some lost piece of life, perhaps?
Everything is easier under the cover of my clouds and stars, dear,
including your lucid waking and dreaming.
I take the long way home.
From outside the pub, I listen to the band play.
I consider going inside.
I see someone eyeball me and motion to an empty seat.
I smile and shake my head.
He cannot take the place of the one on my mind tonight.
I do not seek distraction.
I will enjoy my own smouldering.
A game of patience.
A study in control.
A tyre pyre burning.
I pass a man followed by a woman.
He has his hand extended behind him.
Fingers shifting in an effort to convince her to hold his hand.
I wonder why she didn’t take it into hers.