The clock, as usual, ticks.
Another look. And again. And barely a minute has passed. And again. A clutch of seconds.
Every breath, incidentally, a deep, deep sigh.
A quiet restlessness that has become matter of fact.

The eyes stray from the page that’s a neat madness of words and meanings and silences and profundities, of typeset 8.
A loose hair, a loose button, loose grammar – things the hands could worry. But interest wanes.
An auto-generated clack of tongue. But no particular irritant.
Another double sigh. A stab of emptiness. Shoulders that sink to make a sitting foetus.
A deep breath and a scrounge of face to articulate invisible, almost framed questions, abandoned at the neuron.

A wry smile carelessly thrown at a happy moment. Of the look,ididthisafavourbyregisteringit variety.
An appreciative, tired snort at the observation.

Waiting for bubbles to rise and burst on the surface of water. Waiting for the tea leaves to stop their aquatic tumble. Waiting for sleep. Waiting for a word. Waiting for the same little jump at the same scratch on the same CD with the same song.
Waiting. Spent desperately.


3 thoughts on “Fifty”

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