Cold Nose English

I don't feel the need to comment on society; the flaws of our daily offerings. I can only ever comment on myself. I'm not frustrated that we can't go out. It's all a mindset, if I was ever in doubt.

When you question if you know me, I'm not convinced I know myself. Life it seems is a mere journey through choices. Often times, things said and done - are filled with questions unto ourselves. Why did I get in that taxi and behave as I did? Why did I say that our love was not even real? How did I let you leave? I ruined it without sharing my truth.

Saying goodbye, as much as it felt right at the time. It could have been more about lust, an image of a life lived out in luxury. That could be one thing I'll regret to the end - It wasn't the truth. It was said to set you free.  I can't feel guilty for gifting you with happiness, despite the illusion of pain albeit initially. My words were knee-jerk.

'Cold Nose English' was the label that stuck. Not an utterance of xenophobia, a mere character trait, identified as true. It seems living up to the name was a curse without knowing. Have I even changed from the person I was? The answer to that might be concealed within a seven year silence. It's far from an itch. It's about confronting the inevitable. I'm not dead, you're not dead. Although sometimes I think it would be for the best. We've both learnt to live apart. To know you're happy makes me thankful you've managed to find love again. A day hasn't gone by without a thought for you. Sometimes it's positive, other times it's dark. The face you'd pull in distain, having to wear a t-shirt that doesn't fit. The chuckle you'd release at the mispronounciation of 'Penguin'. Any thoughts, all thoughts - I still think of you.

Faceless contact hath been granted. Hiding behind enigmatic words, a white background of anonymity -doused in back handed clues. I can never reveal myself to you. I'm too afraid of the repercussions. I wouldn't put it passed you to bully me with hope. What even am I hoping for?

I used to celebrate secretly when you'd leave for a week. I'd have the house to myself. Buy in recreational drugs, a bottle of rum and play with endless salacious thoughts. I'd save up enough funds to frequent bars that included naked ladies dancing. South West leisure is how it appeared on the credit card statement. Only nervously obfuscated by a black sharpie thick line. Friday Night, I'd be out. By Sunday they all knew me by name. Chantel, Chardonnay and Chloe - I'm still not convinced their names were real. I'd pay for their private time and enjoy their convulsive moves. They'd always order cans of 'pussy juice'. A deliberate trick to tease you into the mood. With tanned Timberlands and fitting plaid shirts. I thought me a bad ass. A rapper of sorts. I'd wake up to staines of vomit mixed rum. I'd blame it on coffee, when you'd come back home.

I've come to accept all that I'm given. The memories I explore accompanied by a soundtrack by 'The Housemartins'. Mackeral Thursdays, smoked pork and beer. You only ever pay at the end, a tally of lines counted with a pen. 'Caravan of love', my song to sing loud. I want to articulate all that I can. I've said 'I'm sorry!' You know who I am. I can't continue with these games as we've both moved along. I won't even burden you with your favourite song. I see you atop red sandstone buttes. A cowboy wanders and shows you the way. I ruined your past. I won't suffocate your future. As much as I want to be involved, I'll forever remain 'Cold Nose English', a name I'll never relinquish.

What any of this has to do with a novel - all I can be sure of....it's a novel life.

Until Next Time...

Do Good Things!