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My thumb follows the veins on the back of his hand, loose skin precedes, a wave with no shore any more – It takes a long time to figure out one’s allergies, he says, quicker to understand taste but a while to understand hangovers. His smile draws the teeth of a head lice comb across his eyes and the timbre of his voice carries an assured melancholy as he continues – It takes a long time to figure out what to do with your time, and a while too to understand how little time you have. He pauses and takes my hand in his as minutes shrink to seconds – But you must be quick to realise that you still have time; you must grasp that you still have time; you still have time to live before all your time is spent. His arm quivers as he lets go and turns to the view, eyes smooth once more. I rub my thumb over the back of my hand, still waiting to finally break upon a shore.

a hill.jpg

©James Bruce May, 2016

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