Means of Transition

I would rather see I highlighted. When sad I’d rather see it, than Schubert my last desperate resort.

I don’t play anymore. Do you? Strings gather dust when left untouched, and I could meander into an awkwardly meaningful metaphor here, but I won’t. Leave it at that.

It overcame me over coffee. Not the transition, but the realisation of transition. It hit me like a song in the left lung. Who sings with their right?

I’ll write you a postcard.

One with a man in a kilt on a windy day. Or a Betty Boop-alike tucking into haggis.

Last year I was a character in a colder climate, part of ‘Portions for Foxes’, all of that attracted I. Had you not had a flashing sign above your head that read ‘Bad News’, I would have stayed away.

And out of sight.

Change means I am no longer tragically attracted to hurt. Only on occasion, and now I heal like a burns victim on acid. Invertedly.

Have you understood any of the above? Maybe. Slivers. But you certainly didn’t read between the fourth and fifth line, and you certainly

don’t

know

me.

Oh calamity.

I forgave you before you squeezed out a sorry from your dog-eat-eat heart. Meant? Unheartfelt? I don’t know

you.