My Life as a Film Script
This was not how I wrote things when I was young
In my teens the end was so far in the distance
That a finale was unconcievable
I lived for the moment, the morning, the day
The early 6:05 train
Leaving a bronzed, unblemished, beautiful man in my bed while I crept around, drinking early instant coffee
Smiling to myself at last night's tender and simple sex
Navigating the inner city concrete jungle city
For an early shift
While he slept on
Weekend sunburn did not stop us from swimming in thick airless heat
Seawater as warm as a bath
Sand in our baguettes
Wine on our lips
Our healthy bodies strode up mountains
Limbs rustled by the high country grasses
The smell of meths in our coffee from the Trangia
Sleeping two to a single squeaky plastic covered mattress in a hut
Much to other trampers disgust
We thought it would last
But money
And electricity bills
And worries from the telly
Wars in strange countries, ugly men who yelled and waved their arms
And petrol prices
And empty fridges
And children with chickenpox, hand, foot and mouth, scabbed knees, and stationary lists
And the dismal repetition of rushed, conjugal relations
The lack of kisses
The eyes that slide over you to the beer on the bench
Those things
They got in the way
So then the end of my script was suddenly so near
I had missed the perfect ending
Of love in old age
Us together for life
Instead the writer of my life failed to tie up the loose ends
And explain the mysteries
Left some strands unfinished
Cliffhangers of broken promises
No epilogue to rely on
(Will it be St Peter at the gate, or reincarnation, perhaps)
I flounder near the end
A montage plays before my eyes
The actors recognisable
But their movements are already played out
I wish for a flashback to take me back to the beginning
To relive
And perhaps to rewrite what is already done
Fade out.
