I'm not moved.  Or at least, I am moved, yes, I am moved, but I sit still and watch you move instead of moving myself.  There's a gentle curve to parts of you, savage hills here and steep drops elsewhere.  The television is quiet and almost mute and I'm not really here, I think, this isn't me.  You shift on the bed. I move a glass of wine an inch either way and I think for a long time of the shifting things that make up a set of circumstances.  What's clear is this: the sun has gone down and I have had too much to drink.  The sun has gone down and you have had too much to drink, too.  I move the wine stem again and stand up and walk to the bathroom and when I see myself in the mirror I can't really recognize the constellation of urges and counter-urges that have led to this point in time.  I would hope that I am not dull, but sometimes it feels that to be this far into the process of breaking down the process, I have to be, to some extent.  My mouth is dry and caked with the remnants of this day's dinner and last night's excess.  I am back on the bed and then I stand up, slightly woozy, realising that in general, to deny myself isn't useful, but it might be sensible.  I go back into the bathroom and brush my teeth, each spiral of the brush reminding me that tomorrow I will do the same thing again, twice.

Published by gurdeepmattu

I’m an author and publisher. I live and work in London and am the author of “Sons and Fascination” (2011, Paperbooks). It's available here:

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