Dressed up but messed up, standing four deep on London Road, trying to block the visions of hospital beds and muffle the echoes of the coughing. Everything is tinted orange by the street lamps and the sparkling stars tonight look like painful pockmarks.
It feels like someone else's eyes saw the fog when it was thick and clinging. You hoisted your skirt and we lay with a madman knocking at the door and the central heating throbbing.
At least there will be no more goodbyes, and a final farewell to the emptiness after another journey across the city. Watching the rats play on the Leith Walk rubble then crawling into a warm but empty bed.
Your wore a smile I'd never seen as you dressed in the thunder, and I heard the nonsense words tumble from my mouth when I should have known better. I rearranged what you felt into what I needed, unable to tell the difference between a snarl and a giggle.
The last bumpy bus ride from the windows on the hill, shared with silent strangers. All of us staring at the passing lights and our ghostly reflections. Maybe we were all reflecting that there can be no winner in a game where only one is playing.
Picture: D. Sinclair Terrasidius
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