Broken slumber

Laid on the railway embankment, the melting cider bottle strewn at your feet, last nights misdemeanours rolling from your tongue; a smoke like gospel. And I try to hang from your words like I do each summer, but they now lack content and flow, the rhythm jolty and timeless. I frown at this realisation, but of course it goes unnoticed, your shadows already over casting. So I rise slowly in silence, reap my final few minuets before the penny finally drops, and I’m then ready to spend a year or so locked in that shell you claim to hate, with pen and paper, listening only to myself.