I.
Stretched days are too long,
like some sort of ****** dub step playing on repeat at the back of your head. Soapy touch of bluish air (or kitchen light, I suppose), and soft cracking sound of ice in glasses, the scent of rose water and virtual vision of your skin against my skin/
                          your hands on my hands. (And we might be humming some out tuned songs  in languor, sloppy voices).

II.
Too long,
             I think of old weekends.
Where me and my cousins used to meet up at some fancy cafes/ random bookshops/ or maybe just my house or their house. And we'll talk a lot or nothing at all. Sometimes, me and N, my closest cousin---childhood playmate to be precise, would just sit beside the floor windows and sink our bodies in the blurry, grained afternoon sunlight. I'd sit with my legs crossed, dry hands holding some novels (which I pretend I'm reading) and N would put a pillow on my thighs and sleep on it. We both felt secure and very, very exhausted, as if we've travelled back to our child days, then to the present time again. Strange enough that we're both people who have cold hearts but still share a bond with each other.

III.
I keen-eyed, knuckles-snapped
staring into the.......long tunnels.
Look how quick the shapes can shift in the dark, but can you get away with it? Can you get away from all the morphing and deformation before it turns into some kind of tragedy? Some kind of blood wash?
You think you're fast enough
    but there'll always be something quicker, something that'll wait for you one step ahead.  
Throw your hair behind, feel the speed, and jump on it, if possible.
(Ps I  wonder who am I when no one's looking. )