Why would you ever buy a second hand gate?
Fair enough if it was in decent condition..
But this one's bent, paint peeling to bare metal now rusted.
But you did..
Smothered in the smoothest Hammerite and hung proudly at your home.
It's still rusted underneath but at least someone is taking care of it.
Grey suit, Black sky,
Yellow socks, No tie,
Blue heart, White lies,
Orange flame, Red eyes.
A cracked vase will hold flowers but not water to nurture.
As a broken man will hold lovers but not dare to love.
Though her case was rather heavy, you'd never have guessed by looking at her carry it. Brown leather as I recall. I remember thinking that her maroonish poncho was chosen to complement the case. It was certainly not to cater for the weather. Rain. Something which hadn't been seen for at least four days by then. As you can imagine, she was not the only one who was fashionably unprepared. I myself was fortunate enough to have worn a hat.
Men with makeshift newspaper umbrellas cursed as they rumbled by with a diagonal posture of urgency. I suspect they were displeased to say the least. She however, seemed not to notice the rain. She stood on the platform as drop after drop it danced on her cheeks now red from the cold. She wore no make up from what I could tell. Perhaps a small amount. She was fantastically plain in appearance, not unattractive. But perfectly average. She seemed distracted. I briefly considered engaging in conversation with her but this idea was inconsiderately interrupted by the ever nearing whistle of the train that was due to cart us to Blackpool. Through the wet stripey air I could see the steam-cloud thin out and disappear to the heavens. As it approached she gave one last glance around at which point I made eye contact. She abliged me with a bashful smile and retreated her attention back to the train.
Setting her case down by her ankle for the first time since arriving on the platform. She took two steps, larger than her regular gait. and a third that would she her land but inches from the nose of the slowing train. I didn't scream. Or shout. To be honest I didn't know I had seen anything until the police came. Her case was filled with clothes, a hairbrush and a small mirror.
I got the next train with everyone else.
Whimpered in whispers to a pillow with no ears or reason to care. Though I'd still ask.
Do you feel it?
Spontaneous but inevitable she comes. Just to remind me of my oils curdling in the depths to resurface. Vile but precious.
Again to no-one,
My favourite word.
Everything about it to me echoes its meaning. To see it stand alone is strange. A discomfort. A feeling of strange.
He feels too much.
I don't worry when he's like this.
But when he becomes desensitised by it all..
That's when I will be frightened.