Blow out the candle

The smell of paper still does it. Hot breath and a careful hand, some blue ink, even adidas when theyre touched with mud and creased up from wear. I cannot still like I'm 27, because the warmth rises in my brain and i can't help but remember those afternoons like a photoshot of memory; school-thru-university and a pick of maybe three or four images i hold to the light in the flickering daytime. I see his crystal squints as he glanced over with teasing tongue, writing any number of nothings while i waved them away, tapping my pen on my ankles or chewing at its end. The top line of those pages in my bound A5s circle my brain; that header space which he shaped into ours with his crackpot blowouts and ginsbergian references. 'What are you writing' i never asked, since it was every-other time and seemed clockwork and random. So he never voiced tumbling please breaths of 'love notes for you' to make me knock out my suspicion and see through to this: the string&clips of phrases which spelled a literary heart too stubborn to break.