"Oh maybe it will happen.. Who knows?" Such a jocular tone toward her, as i gathered the cutlery I had just wrapped, and turned to re-enter the pub.
Such a grip, and yet as I turned, one imperfectly wrapped steak knife and fork cascaded to the ground, it seemed to happen slowly, and yet i barely recognised the fall, until I looked down to see a perfectly opened napkin, a fork lying solemnly and a steak knife; piercing the ground.
It's slanted direction was toward me, as if it were simply up to me and no one else to pull it's point from the orange lino. There it stuck.
The cook looked at me and I, the knife, so still it was, stuck in the ground.

Perhaps... Oh if you are simply a knife in the ground, then be so!

But something swept over me. A realisation, a fresh winters breeze, a thin splash of warm water...
He remembers what I wore the day we met.
And I've a mind for numbers.
Songs in the market and previous numbers before,
How can you pass by 365,
And how sweet can an old touch to a painting be?



It's white and tea stained, the night I lay.