My Life as a Film Script

 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.