Eight

The man at Night & Day on Tory Street has large pores and creates a dry smile when I make eye contact after I pay for a steak & pepper pie at 2:30am. I ask him how his shift has been, how often he gets a break, and he replies, ‘It depends on the shift.’ I can tell it’s bad though and never, and not enough and after leaving my body feels bruised. I go out jogging along the waterfront and realise I look like nothing, just an outline of polyester and nylon which hangs loosely around a silhouette, and it’s so cold here, it’s October now but still so cold. I haven’t looked at the moon in a while, have forgotten its shape, in fact, the last time would have been back home, just after slamming the door, stumbling on sublime drunk, breathing in pure black. There was no edge to anything that night, only that white halo, my hand moving somewhere below my heart, remember that feeling? Long ago dark, the echo of different sounds, which I steal and wear, like art.