an open tin of water colour paints arrives on a communal table one day causing fingers to crawl over water-cut QWERTY keys scale the scalding glass of a fresh cup of tea and survive the plight of staple attacks before leaping into crimson’s near-empty pot over-zealous on love, willing to take their shot
when the finish line is so close mind becomes five day old flowers ready to return to the soil from which it came dehydrated petals, a few still vying for life through their might they try others leaning languid in cloudy vase water daring the observer to drink or call it quits- the dirt is calling them home but how will I, after this show-play how and where will I return?
whether by chance or the sun really had used it’s last call to dial her body from it’s after-dinner nap her just-awoken eyes caught the evening sun being strong-armed away by the heavies: sun-buster 1 and 2 dressed head to toe in puffy grey suits “don’t worry love, go back to bed” their frail attempt met with only contempt as her pupils remained fixed, keeping witness as the veil between her and her star grew in thickness “I’ll be out tomorrow, I promise” the sun shot its orangepurples through the fog “til aurora” she replied and then came the night.
standing at the corner of cinema street she saw her life in picture in picture 22 year old self in the bottom right corner celebrating her first “career job” as an adult with the clink of mugs carrying fresh mint tea the other 75% of the screen was her present day face in extreme close up five minutes before her next job interview other than the speckles of sweat, we see the lines that grew from laughter the marks from clumsy adventures and eyes that still hold wonder
a: what is worse than living in the simple past? b: living in conditional?