euphemism for a disenchanted rogue.

Tongue and Teeth and air-so-thick.
She used to find it charming. Alluring.
'he drank like a broken-hearted youth'
Oh so vogue. He rode a motorcycle.
The thought is laughable now.
a vision in vinyl leaning,
nonchalantly,
against the heavy bike-a cigarette
hanging dangerously from his lips.
Bee-stung she'd called them.
He didn't like that much.

Her reflection is distorted
her grimy reflected self dances
as the kettle comes to call.
She chews at a fingernail-
absentminded.
She is somewhere else really
kicking her heels against the low brick wall
as his warmth fills her up.
he tasted new then.
She'd be compelled to press a single finger to her lips
to hold him there a little longer. To savour.
She never said she wanted to be his vice.
These Things are better left unsaid.
all those perfect cliches
A life-well-lived seemed imminent.


Reality rattles back into view as several bodies invade the almost-peace of the tiny kitchen.
She wipes her hands on the back of her flannalette night dress and begins again.
The buttering of the toast.
The pouring of the juice.
The reminders- dentist appointment, football practise, detention,
"James DO NOT forget to give that note to Ms Hansen."

Happiness used to be just a hair flip away.
now it comes in stolen moments when its quiet and she can rest her cracked and ageing feet.
Mirrors are no longer friendly.
The cigarettes and vodka are nothing but regrets.
regrets and yearning. Nostalgia, like many things is a disease of the mature.
maybe you can't have both.
He didn't think so.