Just ...

… three
forty-five, a hand reaching across

to the mobile,
recharged, a blinked look at the

clock, the dark
visible to the sides of each

curtain, closed eyes
again,

awoke, looking at
the shimmer behind the

lids

… hmm, a cigarette
habitual, habitual

thought, playing
with the idea, cigarette,

standing in the open
door, while

playing with the
idea that you'll

appear around the
corner, round the

edge

… then, no, I feel
full, I don't

need to pump up,
like a flat old

tyre, bare traces of
tread, creases

and cuts in the
retro white walls

… okay, maybe I'll
just stand

back, lie still, at
this pool's

edge and take a
neat, quick,

silent dive back
into the pool,

with the characters
waiting in the walls,

hanging there for
entry into

the stage submerged

…, why, why no
need for smoke

and singing in the
veins after

the rolling, the
silent ritual?

… waiting to
return, toes tipping in

the pool's light
surface, I feel loved,

loved so, so in this
moment, so

outside it

…, is it you? Is
it you this feeling,

this fullness, this
feeling,

without need?