murge

While I retreat into myself.  While you retreat into yourself.  Let me make coffee, put on some music.  This time it's not your memory.  This time I think you're scattering the now.  This time I think we're falling apart, away from each other, silently.  I hate this bit.

I went away to another place to splurge my murge on a page, to start again, to get kick started, to move away and then in again and never get to the start of a dusky fantasy which could be quite good if it only didn't go on and on like another lonely fart.

See the angels are coming now and I can't see why so I won't know what to say when they arrive.