Revolving.

We turn to people like the spin of a revolving door; each revolution is someone passing through as another leaves. Round and around and around. Only smudged fingerprints not seen, are left. But we know they touched us, we feel it, and maybe we touched them? I’d like to believe this. Especially about you. And it’s with this belief, that yet again my finger hovers like a hawk, over send, to a message I’ve wrote, deleted and rewrote a thousand times before...but never sent. To finally press and commit would admit that the message previously not sent, is worth sending...and I don’t know if it is? I don’t like the content. It’s bitter tang is like slamming shots of espressos, too strong that they clench the jaw, giving a buzz that you can’t handle...but, but, there’s those saccharine moments remembered also, too sweet to fill a paragraph with; too sweet, that those words don’t belong to me. I delete it again.

‘Tomorrow is another day,’ ‘it’s for the best,’ and ‘life goes on,’ are armies of cliches I slide around my world, conquering nothing but myself.  It’s too early, the morning has barely said hello. The bay window begs company. It’s plush cushions are plump breasts I lay my back and head into, as I spy life outside. King Crow, from his tree-throne, surveys his urban kingdom. His subjects of sparrows and finches parade along the roof guttering, red brick walls and aerial spires, tweeting his praises. Kid’s on skateboards slalom down the street named after a continent,(America), dodging the occasional pedestrian and dog walker, who are walking their own kind of kids. A cyclist is coming up America, (it’s a steep climb), pushing his bike, out of air, puffing on a joint. Giggling girls, briskly passing, their hair a tricolour of black, blond and blue, share a joke behind cupped hands. A taxi pulls up on the other side, directly opposite my window: Mr & Mrs Green returning from another appointment. She got the all clear last April, but now it’s his turn. He dreads letters, those officious looking types with the plastic windows. They only bring news unwanted. But like a cliche, life goes on, doesn’t it?