swinging blue satchel

how do i feel
how have i ever felt
grazing upon the dregs left of me
mourning a sickness never felt

i see souls dancings in the cockles of a beach
knees grazed against blobs of smushed yellow paint
tears pooled upon the kid in me's cuff
a soiled paper towel
a broken yolk
and flashing lights
threaded through the loop of a polo shirt

each cell and day a memory
a spark blinked apart

of her sat there in the sunlight
beams tint the playground
blobs of primary colours paint a tarmacked skyline

when the sun heated the paint
it became malleable
stuck under your fingernails
and it smelled of playdough

i wondered why i was
what i could be
how it would happen
like a stream of tipped dominos
it would happen
i would be

i now have lines forming round the age of my eyes
thoughts blob black like a migraine
i see them in the roof of my soul
in the grains of my ceiling

continuing the comfort of each and every U turn
excitement once thicker than a fog light
only flickers sometimes
on occasions through the gaps in my black out curtains
they were cut too short for the window

this is not relishing
nor acceptance of a glimmer
snuffed dimmer
but it's been that long i can't pin point the source of it's light anymore

i'm overchoked
over cooked
with a plethora of thoughts
i am a flipbook with no last page
i reject every flicker
if synapsed light -
a self diagnosed epileptic

thinking so much while also thinking so little
i cant connect with her anymore
i'm watching my dreams back on an etch-a-sketch
i fear if i'm ever able to draw the curves back in

i can't remember luminescence
yet i can write about it
as if it was an entity
sat upon that bench across the way
dangling its legs
scuffing its shoes against the tarmac

a yellow paint bleeds between the rubber grips of her soles