7.7 Days in Bliss

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Now,
at last,
the last shirt is packed.
Closing the suitcase,
as one closes a chapter,
one can see all the creases in the leather.
I see twentyfivehundredlines all converging,
interlacing,
weaving a tapestry that I cannot touch,
but feel and taste every day.
My auspices drift and project onto each of the valleys in the hide.
Great, impossible gaps in the surface,
that once were so unassailable yet now sit,
beneath me.
Like the time I stumbled back to you on the bus, high on life and aching,
or the time I indulged in iconoclasm with T in urine frenzy and joy.
And look,
a terrible darkened crease between my jaunted walks in bitter coldfrom
Moorland to Claverton, to Combe, to the impossible purple spike!
Kissing in XL with mediocrity, and laughing in revery at how we’re not homeless for now.

We threw peas in Woodland and hit skins in Eastwood,
and ran dried drunken lips on sacred navels in Solsbury.
We held awkward packages next to M,
trying to avoid the explanation of the timid vanity of cock…
…playing with chlamydia,
or shouting chlamydia up the stairs,
or lying high in darkness listening to the XX or Dark Side.
That time we danced with duct tape,
swearing we’d been here before.
God, I’ve spent weeks in 3eastDoIReallyHaveAReasonHere?!
Or are the girls just cuter in this building than everywhere
else?

Like that time we threw cigarette butts onto the frozen lake,
hoping,
praying to whatever god there is,
that the ash can melt through to the other side,
so it could at least make some difference in this life.
When we loved and lived, and laughed and lied and loved,
never wondering why we now stand this side of the train tracks.
Those train tracks that shiver with the train on the horizon:
it’s arriving soon.
Those damn train tracks that shuddered and shook from Caledonian to Third,
from Third to Westwood to awkward erections to South,
to the damnable Widcombe hill that won’t take me twice,
cos C waits in Bath Spa with her suitcase and not my suitcase,
cos it sits here on this rapidly cooling bed at the end.
Mum left me with 4 cans of Guinness, 2 condoms and Windows Vista;
tearful then,
we’re tearful hence.
Yes, great memories.
We close this case firmly.
All those memories entwined within,
encased and buried,
as we move on.
We salute, expire and finally sigh,
“Time to go”.

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About Author

John Barlow is Editor-in-Chief (2015/16) and former bite Editor (2014/15) at bathimpact. He writes about society, pop culture, music and film. He also reports on a number of University of Bath and local politics issues.

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