Standing in the kitchen, lights bright and nobody near, two hands on the counter to steady the sudden sway, this clarity of thoughts comes as a surprise because, for as long you can remember, they’ve come spread in syrup – at work you wait frowning for words to come and colleagues look at the clock or over towards the door – but in this instant you could conjure exactly the right phrase, articulate your words in precisely the right order, yet your ex isn’t here, your friends aren’t here, your parents aren’t here and as your mouth fills with saliva and the panic comes on strong and your knees thud against the floor and the plates smash in slow silence about you, all that’s truly clear is the hopelessness, the senselessness, the futility of life, for love was in vain for those who die alone.
©James Bruce May, 2018
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