So, anyway…. I thought of how I could become a small doughnut-shaped inspector of toenail clippings. I thought I heard the apple crumble of your need falling through the letterboxes of so many helicopter polishers.
We sat on the border between this land and the land over there where the structural engineers rule. That land where they party until dawn, singing songs about sexually-precocious woodlice and telling tall tales of their adventures in the far distant land of lost tax returns.
I could have been a hero. I could have turned on your television, using a long thin stick especially fashioned for that very purpose by cave-dwelling social workers.
I carry a drawing of your left nipple. I carry it with me always, to guide me back home should I get lost out in the lands beyond the ring-road.
Home - that place I know so well. The place where I will always find your underwear filed away in alphabetical order in the filing cabinet we bought together on our honeymoon in Droitwich.
I should have been the marmalade you spread on the toast of our love.
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