𓋫

I’ve heard the church ring its bells from this sick bed. I don’t know which, I live in a village of churches. Something I have missed in the pattern of Sundays, demanding and apart. It takes a twist in the throat, a bruising of the body to be so still. I’ve asked for coffee with an empty stomach, aware of its spite. Rebecca lays at my side, a piano played in the next room. My thoughts grow vile to a mouth on my organ. Half past noon and the sky has darkened, no limb lifted this endearing weight of self. Three hours to think, one to remember. Tonight was supposed to be martinis, a pair of leather gloves beside, a blonde. Now it will be this sickbed, an early dusk and hours that fly by.