in the picture of my life i hold in my head, the greying one that is browned at the edges, the one i might hold in papered hands and pass to people younger than me, there, i realise, i am always alone. bent down at an awkward place in my back, a place not meant for bending, with the broadest of chests and the longest of shoulders, i rest my gentle fingertips on the things that i have loved. i wonder if there might ever be a thing to share it with, a shape to sidle up next to in the wee hours of the eighty yeared nights. with feet fitted under blankets into one another, the right on the left, warming in handshake.