It'd been ten years since he had a birthday to celebrate and thirteen since the planes hadn't fallen from the sky. The clock hit zero and time started counting forward again. Fireworks and flares. Green triangles in Handels, giggling into the night.
Bends for eighteen months, the wheels turn, shoulders gather dust.
Postcards and polaroids, elastic bands, shoeboxes.
If only you thought of the words, you could have held onto his heart.
His radio announcer's voice intoning, italicising: "I was simple, I was dumb. I was the pilot..."
A square toed stacked heel cowboy boot, Gainsbourg gauche, dig the Clyde Barrow drag.
You sometimes wonder whether cigarettes were the only things you shared?
As long as there's sun.
As long as there's rain.
As long as there's fire.
As long as there's me.
As long as there's us...
