Dabs of white silk insulate us from the summers sun's glow. As I, legs akimbo s t r e t c h upon my bed. Yellow sheets kicked to a hill at my feet. The walls yellow and the winter throw too. A petit Sri Lankan Buddha perched on the sill clocks this summer's air.
It's usually tidy I recall, sharing my bed with Du Bouchet
eyeing three half packed bags, strewn across the fake parquet. I find peace in this space. Martina my caramel Almansa greeting me with each sun, Her head golden. Amélie's sunburst body cached -Hidden under my bed.
This space of mine returns me. As I, with eyes through the glass pursue planes, their destinations stealing my being.
Drinking Silence in South London.