Little Fictions – Elbow
We protect our little fictions
Like it’s all we are
Little wilderness mementos
But there’s only you and me here
He is there again. Standing on the ledge again. Standing on the edge again.
He is there again: fire breathing. The scorpion boy with a sting in his tongue. He’s the boy with the hair the colour of dead men’s bones. There’s whispers about him, they mingle in the air. The words mixing with the faraway air. The air he breathes in. The air he breathes out.
He has a friend through the clouds and across the sea. The story of them is a smudge of inexplicable ink on the thin skin of his right hand.
The wind changes around him and so do the words, they’ve done this before. He’s been there. He’s read that story. They have done this before. They have told the same stories.
It’s a story he knows well, the fictions he’s told many times. He’s read the fictions she’s told many times.
They say he’s calculating. They say he’s mysterious. They say he’s difficult to understand.
They say she’s manipulative. They say she’s emotional. They say she’s cut and run.
But it’s all the stories they tell each other, the stories they tell themselves. And it slots together, clicks, like a magnet.
The stories; it’s how they met.
Across liquid; glass of white wine in a pub in a city he once lived. Across liquid; tea in cups with chips at the rim. Across liquid; tears shed. Across liquid; blood and water.
Sharing the little fictions like it’s all he was and all she was but it was just the two of them. Holding tight, waiting.
Across liquid; always liquid. It finds a way, always the way. It fills the cracks that life has eroded. The cracks that life formed.
Erosion. Formation. Explosion. Implosion.
Across liquid; the Thames and the Torrens and the water in between.
Across it and through it.
[Happy birthday to my boy across the sea. yhbhxo]