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Dec 2019
the kind of passing thought,
as you stumble along,
that makes the toothpick hairs on the back of your neck prickle,
and makes your breath,
get caught on the train tracks scratched into your lungs,
by the runaway sobs,
and stifled cries.

a finale of sorts,
awkward in itself,
oddly concrete in its sound, and yet,
sending me back,
from places i have no wish to be sent back from ; transcendent memories,
flickering in glee.

like candlelit reflections,
in festive shop windows.
Written by
Ell Street  17/F/United Kingdom
(17/F/United Kingdom)   
115
   Rob Rutledge and Jim Musics
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