grand plans

He paints in oils when he should be studying. Paint drips onto his shoes and through his worn-down carpet and he doesn’t really care.

He will not sit his exam tomorrow. He thinks it doesn’t matter, really. He’s considering someone he could call instead. They’ll smoke another cigarette on the balcony, drinking coffee saying nothing. Later, they’ll pretend that wasn’t all. Company is fickle. He knows this.

He writes in blue biro on public transport. He doesn’t care much for probationary licenses or rust-ridden cars. He likes delays and babbling strangers. There is no-one at his destination. He thinks he doesn’t mind.

He wonders about plurality and grammar in the collected works of William Shakespeare. Anything much beyond that is just a walking shadow, to him. Anything much behind is just a clutter of 26.

He’ll drop out and make coffee until his eyes burn with sting of caffeine and his clothes smell of sweat and espresso. His hands will fidget with the labels on takeaway cups, and his hair will be tied back, like it used to be. He’ll talk to the girl in the fruit shop next door and later they’ll pretend not to see one-another.

He misses kissing, sometimes. He says, just you and me, please, can we?

He paints in oils when he should be studying.

(He thinks it’s all a bit pathetic)

He will not sit his exam tomorrow.