Bowl

A bowl that once held fruit balanced precariously on the edge of a table. The bowl reflects the grey light of nowhere days. The edge of the table is sharp and unnerving, and as you try to daydream, the point of it all -both literal and metaphoric- seems to drill, or wishes to, a bore into your skull.
My torso holds something akin to a tropical fever, a mild jungle delerium that disquiets my internal organs. Makes them restless and agitated. I breathe air that tastes of bad clouds. I drink water and orange juice to clear it, but neither do. I look out at the sea, the sky, the workers on the closed off road below.
Farewell to places I'll never see again. I speak to Dad on the phone in the last couple of days of them living there in Perranporth, as they're moving on Friday. No more cliff top path walk, no more St Piran's Cross at Christmas Eve. Ghosts of Bracken and Misty and rock pools and I'll probably never see Cornwall again.
Long day at work. Ten hours.
I forgot to buy milk.
I've got to go out into that evening, balanced precariously as that fictional fruit bowl, balanced on a made-up table, feel it's point bore into me, like a song I cannot forget, a name I can't recall.