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Serenity Elliot Sep 2014
I could see her glancing at me behind lowered eyes
It was either me,
Or the book.
Suddenly she turned, the candle flame mirrored in her pupils
Her face was flushed by nervousness
Or maybe drink.
She liked literature she said
But I think she also liked my accent
She was wild
I was wild
No time for the corperate world although that's where we both existed
Reading, travelling, red hair
We liked the same things
So
I never messaged her back
Serenity Elliot Sep 2014
He was sitting behind me in a resteraunt
Alone
Engrossed in a book
An Iranian author
A set of essays
He was nice to the waiter
A foreign accent, a tattoo of the sea and bright red hair
A candle created shadows on his face
I turned around
I like to explore unknown territory
He held out his phone
Out of place in the context of his person
Perhaps that's why he hasn't made any more contact
Like the fleeting patterns on his skin on a cold city night
Serenity Elliot Sep 2014
I wish that I could crochet in the bath.
I would lie a board across the ledges, if I had one long enough
As my fingers intertwined in the soft wool
Little water droplets would settle
Like frozen tears of glass.
That would just be for a moment, before it grew heavy
and sodden.
I've read like that before,
the pages have become crispy and smudged
That shows love and warmth
But wet wool seems cold and miserable.
If I dropped a needle in the water it would become rusty,
Useless and uncomfortable.
I would crochet in the bath, but I don't think I could find a board long enough.

— The End —