I almost cried on my barber today
when he asked me if I thought it was sad
how, at the age of 21,
he didn’t enjoy drinking
or going to parties
or being in large groups
and his best friends are his mum,
his girlfriend, and his boss (in that order)
and his ideal sort of day
is waking up when his body lets him,
having zero plans and resting
both his body and his mind.
When he sprayed my neck
with the scent of cloves and oranges
he’d hand chosen for the festive season,
I replied,
Your life smells pretty content, mate.
His laugh was soft, but long.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

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