the spark.

demon politeness – he knows i m keeping him on the long finger – i realise everything, all along, has been my fault – i have nothing to give because i m too busy hiding it – hiding the truth – he s tired from the last chemo treatment and the knowledge that they ve done all they can do – I see a picture of a brain tumour, here, on OD, when I m trying not to think about it – is he dying, or are we all? – and when we turn the lights off to go to sleep i lie there awake for an hour, imagining i m somewhere else – a daydream, at night – i imagine i m in France and life is still exciting – for a moment i feel relief, maybe that my mind is that easy to fool – but then i remember its still London and although i m not past it yet i m not over it, either – i m trying not to correlate the things that do not go together – when the lights are off i do not feel the spark – now i m not sure if its there when the lights are on – not like Trombone, who was and still is 440 volts pure electricity every time i think of him – but he doesnt want me that way – or maybe i blew it, like a fuse – that demon politeness again – things move on, he s getting married in Vegas, black Elvis – his torment of frustration because i m not saying anything – painfully, painfully shy – nothing of value to report – unproductive – uncooperative – but i just want to be left alone now –