There are cracks in the yellow plaster where the heat from our radiator swelled too thick against the walls. On mornings when the city wears its age, supporting the same white eyebrows that danced in laughter beneath your grandfather’s furrowed forehead, we count countries. Making up names for the yellow lands within the lines that don’t fit onto the maps we know, and assuming stories to account for the slight changes to the U.K’s shape.
‘Rising Sea Levels Swamp Isle Of Man’ informs the weather man off CNN; his voice broadcast from your tongue to every country we can see. ‘Giant Squid Consumes The Heel Of Italy And Part Of Alaska Melted By Newly Discovered Tectonic Fracture.’
Some days I will remind you that we are too old for make-believe. Too old to put stock in imagination and waste time on delusions of magic.