What's next

In deathbeds' heads

What's left?

I make rules for myself to break.

I think I've learnt from my mistakes.

I wish I'd time to do it right again.

I've got it now that I can see the end.

Age had lost its shine by 2025. However long was left, and this really couldn't be guessed, was occupied with regret, consumed by equations worked in dawn's light, drawn on the bedroom wall beneath the frame which hung, still now askew, balancing what not, and what still there was time, to do.

Films, lately a Dylan and yet another Bridget Jones, depicted icons coming of age where she found herself again. She'd dreamt that kitchen: man; the William Morris curtains; tiles; she'd raced that bike, streaming hair crossing desserts' miles; she'd smoked, toked, tripped and slipped fate's grip. She'd say there was time and plenty to redress regret but of course there couldn't be much now left. Who could know, or how, the course still yet to go.

Wrapped in old loves' arms (and charmed) wistfully they'd shared a wish they'd had the gift of retrospect, when; 'what ifs'. They might have been a family then. 'It's twins' they'd said in late love's bed; how differently they'd live it now, with hindsight's greying heads. She'd not have left him bitterly; he'd not have spread his lusty seed; romanticising, fantasy, all the lives that might have been and blind to the reality, deathbeds' heads still dream.

What's next?

?