I am a creature of habit.
What a cliche.
More often than is necessary, I sit on a curiously shaped bench under a little tree on the corner of a street that shouldn’t have any special significance.
But it does.
I think in bursts. Status. Tweet. Fragments…
They run over and over in my head, wearing a pattern that I can follow later if I need. Until the most sincere words transform into the scraping of an ageing machine, robot, rusty and burned out and sagging and heavy.
My gait changes when I spend time with you. Lover. Friend. A shuffle planing forward with head bowed. An uncomfortable, full waddle. Limping like my left leg is 3 centimetres too short, but really my right leg is the shorter one and so my hip aches and my arches swell and I can never stop thinking of you. All of you.
I learn how to walk and how to speak and how to sing and how to write, but my thoughts still get stuck.
Stuck on you.
Another cliche.
Maybe I need to be facing downhill, hide in the shadows.
How terrible it is that anything you may think to write has been written before.
You can’t learn a chance meeting, make a habit of running into someone so I guess I’ll just walk home again.
