Between the Lines

Form: Epistle

Hello, my lovely, it’s Sunday and dismal and damp outside. Bloody cold out but the fire is lit and I have cut enough wood to keep it going through the night with the sweet scent of burning pine. Sunday marks the beginning of my working week so the jeans are put away and I am dressed in my khaki combats and a t shirt, both still warm from sitting on the airer in front of the fire. Seriously I may as well just stay in my pjs as no bugger sees me from one day to the next.

I love you…

I spoke to R earlier; M is still in one of his sulky moods. We just have to let him work through it I guess. Makes my workload heavy though – R is taking up the slack on posts to site, I’m grateful

You are my girl…

I’m thinking of colouring my hair again but can’t decide between blue or purple, not that it really shows on my hair except on the greys and I got a few more of those. Chestnut and wisdom highlights are so bloody boring. The inner rebel is pushing for more punky style, the ruling Goth is not having none of it and is playing with blackest eye liner and black nail paint.

You are mine…

The black nail paint didn’t last long as had bread to make – not a clever combo is it? A dozen rolls and two batch loaves is worth it. A dozen became ten, when Jay decided to help wash up. Biting my tongue as I need the therapeutic hand soak, but he doesn’t offer that often so had to accept, huh? Oh well I’ll make a cake on a break when the world is asleep.

I want to show you pleasure…

Damn I got to start work soon. I know it all seems fucked up babe but a balance is coming together so we got to work it out for now. That’s easy for me to say, I guess. I have worked night owl hours most of my life so it seems natural and I guess feeds the animal inside me that hungers for artic winters of no daylight as I ain’t seen none in over a week.

Let me kiss your lips, baby, let me taste you…

Maybe cutting my own hair was a naff idea – if I wear it loose I look like an aging Beatle. Oh well no more Bono tresses until it grows out. Still beats having some random bugger touching my hair – I really hate that. I can’t even figure out how I survived the afros, and backcombing and never liking the result when I was younger. Doing that didn’t last long really, my teens I think, then I just let it grow until I shaved the lot off. Might do that again.

I’ll be home soon, darling…

Always, all ways, your crazy-assed poet xxxx


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