Anarchist
Coffee shop, Harvey Nicks, Leeds, Saturday morning, my eyes are like a camera trying to catch the people around me.
A lady nearby peruses the menu, her hand dips into the open neck of her shirt, playing with a pendant yet unseen.
The chain is long, it dips lower and lower, such a long chain, it could affect a mans appetites, let it swing free.
My coffee is forgotten and cold, I am lost in my imagination, my mind it is hanging where only a chain has been.
Her order taken, she sits talking to her companion, I am not there, her hand still dips, my mind still trips over.
I see another unsettled night ahead, I am under control during the day but I just sleep like an anarchist.
Thrashing about until the bedding is fully disarranged, only then to sleep I just lay there without a cover.
I could never work in a shoe shop, to much leaning and gleaning, such views could shorten a mans interest.
bkewl.
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