1000 months

I am sat in a cafe watching the spiral galaxy of milk cool into being in the black night coffee before me.

I imagine a ballerina in a music box, sparkling, swirling; a segue into a memory faded in the sun and rain.

When it has settled, the liquid in the cup takes on a donkeyish colour, dun and homely.

I taste bittersweetness with a silent tongue.

And I take my time.

I am passing time.

Time.

How much do you get?

Fewer than a 1000 months.

I am wasting time.

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