1pm, maybe later, saw a guy on the floor, recognised him from the night before. I took a seat, my bum was cold, my mind filled with thoughts of home and what I’d done just minutes before, spilled a drink pounds down the sink. Gary, he was called, I perched beneath a money giving hole in the wall. For anything, in the world, and what he told; a hot chocolate was all he could afford, so I crossed the road & bought a burger & something hot in the form of chocolate and, back beside him, arms embracing, said goodnight to this stranger who, made my evening in his ask for nothing more and, nothing less than a cuddle in the street.
To sounds of spring’s warm evening through an open window.
Sometimes, it happens quickly; you have to catch it before the sentence has gone.
It’s dark out. I think I’ll stay awake until morning comes, waiting for the words to return.
The trains been cancelled from Newcastle; I was heading further North. The man sat next to me, in a white stripped shirt, swilled the last of the wine in his plastic glass and put it to his mouth. Red wine filled my nostrils as he did. He sighed, I smiled and the middle aged stags on the seats in front of mine raised their cans and crashed them into the man dressed as a black & white wigged superhero.
It’s Thursday afternoon at work. It’s raining outside, but it was nice, quite bright only moments earlier. I’ve been to the bathroom three times and noticed the soap in the dispenser running low for the first two, which got me thinking, perhaps I should write a note asking for it to be refilled; I refrained in fear of getting into routine responsibility for informing the cleaner of low-running soap. On the third trip, I looked in the mirror and down at the dispenser, where a post-it note was placed, for the first time ever, written in hand other than my own, ‘please refill the dispenser. Thank you’
My head’s hazy and my eyes are tired.
My legs are bruised but it’s bright outside.
Reading about India, surrounded by Indian tongue which I can’t understand and there’s one man who only seems to reply to the wife whom he’s facing, with the greenest eyes.
Sigur Rós played. The morning after and I’m on the train to work, floating, imagining my body in the ocean, ears under water, engulfed in music.
Morning light, train journeys through the countryside and Fleetwood Mac singing my morning to life.
My mum looked at me, and laughed, quite lovingly.
‘But what do you expect? You’re from a family of free spirits.’
between worlds of absolute purity and calm, and it’s opposition of sugar, alcohol and everything crazy.
A woman on the train looked to her companion, sighed and stated, she couldn’t do this every morning.
I was stood in the queue, eight or so items balancing carefully in my hands and under my arms - I’d politely turned down the offer of a basket from a gentleman who was walking around with just one tin of cat food in his. A woman with matted brown hair and knee high boots stood next to me, just a few inches away, surprisingly light on her toes for a 6pm shop at Tesco. She signaled to a man at one of the self-service tills, who in return waved the shop assistant over and as it perfectly scripted, the woman light on her toes made out of the shop’s open door with two bottles of something in her hands. I watched her disappear into the dusk as a smile crept upon her male companions face.
And from nowhere, from an unknown playlist, that song and every strum on the strings, reminded me of you. You, who I haven’t seen for so long.
