Like with my body and the gym,
i would exercise my imagination through writing fanciful stories
i would sit at the piano and listen to the kissed tones glisten on my fingertips
leaving chorded streaks of silvery lipstick on the ridges in my ear
How little time i spent doing any of these damn sweet lovelies,
like going into the cupboard to have a lick of honey but just to dip the tip of a chopstick. We may fear lack of honey, but why fear lack of time?
I should have ladled them in by the mouthfulls, i should row across that great golden ocean with spoons the size of oars, in great big syrupy strokes, watching my arms bulge and my buttons pop clittering into the bits of the boat, the wooden beams that give structure. The Words.
You have to shift your weight a lot further to the back when you're rowing on honey.
