They burst
out into our narrow white washed cobbled street.
Our prawns
get cold as we both, bewildered by it all and as if from out of our skins, we watch
our other “selves” battle out the feelings we have kept bottled up tight
inside.
Fear, self-loathing,
regrets, all squash the warmth from the air.
The bougainvillea
trembles in our intermittent silences.
Like
tainted blood they crawl the walls and let the skeletons of our lives seep out.
Our haunted
chorus is rhythmed on the beat of that passing heard.
It will
pass right?
The prawns
still stare at us. They know…
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