Playing

… and the bones jangle and leap before my eyes, in my dream I think “that’s what comes of exercise”. Though they gleam pretty all starlit and clean, still I rather flesh for canoodling. The Skelton continues its solitary shamble in dead imitation of a jaunty gambol, and dances, and prances with lover like glances from absent eyeballs. I imagine its silent cooing calls of sweet nothings to reluctant ears. It just wouldn’t work, I say, it would all end in tears, but the bones continue their rhythmic rattle in ignorance of my defensive prattle, because skeletons don’t have ears.