olivia

Each breath is amazing
Facebook will find her
Olivia…
Olivia… Ahh what was her surname
Olivia Jenkins? Nahh not her
Olivia Poole?
Fitch?
Goldman? Nope…
errrr maybe her age, yeah, born nineteen ninety errr
“how old are you?”
“I’m 24, how old are you?”
Olivia… Born 1992…
what do I do? tell the truth? Who’ll know? No Pinocchio’s nose on me… nah be real boy, don’t be wooden, you shouldn’t if you wanna impress her, undress her, caress her…
not her, not her, not her
Cmon quickly tell her, stop getting caught by thoughts of the smell of her hair, the groove of her lips, the ridge of her hips… Quick!!
“I’m twentyone today actually”
“oh happy birthday!”
she hugs me like a teddy bear, that must mean she cares, and I’m ensnared by her smile, but don’t let me out, let me die, let me fly to heaven resting in blissful agony upon the smooth crest of your teeth
“where’s my present then Olivia?”
she swings back her head and a grin becomes a laugh, a sonic heart pumping bone-warming tones, thumping at the same pace as a nearby bass
Olivia…
Olivia… Occupation? What did she do again?
“what do you do then Olivia? I bet your clever”
“I work for vogue”
she smokes, she smoulders, drops a shoulder, eyes like kaleidoscopic boulders, I’m running towards them…
Olivia… Vogue… Nope, errr nope… Nothing
Indiana Jones has no stones compared to me, he runs, but I roll with the granite, I snowball til all of time is compounded with the colours of her eyes
education? Where did she say she went?
lured back into time by a delicious voice filling my nostrils, it intoxicates, I’m heady, woozy, boozy
“yeah I did English at Bristol and graduated this summer”
Nope, nope, nope, just can’t find her
“‘Liv, come inside we can’t find katy”
Caught between two ways of being rude, her head moves side to side, to face her friend’s face and then back to mine
“Im sorry Tom, I’ll find you in a sec”
Then she’s up before I catch my breath, standing, skipping, drifting away, the leftover rain on the seat has made small a stain on her skirt as her feet flirt with the ground, ghostly grace as she floats between the airspaces in a mass of post-teen steam, vaporous, amorous, fabulous, boundless, soundless. Fear bubbles in my stomach and is burped out as an “oh fuck” but the pangs are dumbstruck by my outlook, bad luck doesn’t exist in this inebriated mist because no world would be able to function if it did, I’ll see her again, the world pumps one blood and we’re swimming in it, somnolently breaststroking, she’s my her and I’m her him, in love, as melancholic as gin, as rich as sin, as gay as a grin, as holy as a hymn, and so sweet, so sweet, I’ll see her again, I’ll see her again
Olivia what…
what’s in a name?
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