on the T,
I saw a woman combing
straight, shiny hair
with a small, yellow comb.
Of the same type that would have made me squirm and scream,
made my prepubescent voice and words beg for mercy.
sent my thick curls - shuddering.
The T is a mix of sepia colors separated by lines that are forgotten in daydreams.
Against brown and beige,
canary plastic glints with conviction
it gets lost
between wisps of hair and hand
AH! It’s back again… glossy :)
Ballet from root to tip,
from one ringed hand to the next.
(did she have rings? i don’t remember but she looked like someone who would have had a few)
Dark strands meld in solidarity
I float in her whites, blues and purple
a memory of van-gogh is replaced by a deceptively long performance of woman and machine
Brick runs past me
and my fingers
that are not hers
that remain unable to touch midnight velvet at times when clocks are not meant to be read
I sit opposite,
creating a millimeter memory of a conversation of colors.
Beams of fluorescence are absorbed into folds of black thread shaking with purpose.
Yellow like the sun,
naughty like the moon.
Mathematical marvel: parallel lines,
A flash of blue denim, thick wool, leather handbag
and she is gone.
Comb tucked away carefully, like the everyday essential it deserves to be.
unseen but immortalised is how we like our essentials to be.
please write about my chapstick, dear Reader.
Sepia is now dry concrete.
New feet stagger to find rest amidst jerks of steel-aluminum alloy.
New faces sit down, unimpressed by metal boxes, as all should be.
New bodies shuffle uncomfortably
a beating heart
an unexpected metamorphosis…
artwork by Shelli Weiler