In my mime.

I write what I cannot say.

I could say,

But I daren’t.

And if I did say what I cannot convey, chances may be slim choosing the word ‘daren’t’.

Inherent thoughts occupy my brain. My heart pulls at the dragging laces of shoes untied. Try as I might, this wandering stride cannot settle runaway desires.

So tired of entertaining solo. Imbibed long blacks in October, the flow of the prose goes on top of lines atop a table wobbly.

Oddly matched couples walk by me.

Nicotine injected into breath upon lips, slips in time inspire me, it’s quarter past the hour of caring as I intake an ice cream in the freezing behind-me wind ripped from the seams of the sea…

I think what I cannot comprehend.

I could then work out those questions, those cemented memories, those moments of unease, those tragedies…

But I shan’t.

And if I should show what shouldn’t be shared, scared may be my soul.

Whole days are categorised between observant glances. My heart gravitates towards the arches of doorways above stores, calling me into the warmth and calling out ignored signals and opportunity.

Does she see me?

Does it matter if I’m here, if I’m near her general vicinity, moving off dark Java and into blood orange tea.

I can’t.

I can’t sit in between cushions of anxiety, sugar spoons of insecurity and amid surround sounds of inadequacy…

I leave.

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