The Days

I think of easy- going days drifting in and out of each other's rooms, the languid way the afternoon would fold into evening then into night. I think of my pile of old paperbacks, their pages gone wobbly, like they'd once belonged to the sea. I think about how i read them lying on my front in the grass on warm afternoons, my hair- which I was growing long then- always falling across my vision.
It was always stuff like that at breakfast; never who you'd had sex with the night before.