mornings on suburban trainsdearest, you have thunder in your eyesmornings on suburban trains by rachel-rhapsody
and lacing your fingertips
the mornings that you sit across from me on suburban trains; they are the brightest mornings of all. i could spend the whole trip admiring each curl in your hair and the shape of each fingernail if only i had the time. sometimes our legs brush when we sit across from each other, and my heart skips, but i don't think you even notice. your gaze lingers on the scenery outside the window; as if you wished you were outside too. as if the train was a cage.
if only you would let me, i could brighten your mornings too.
the afternoons that we exit the train at the same stop, they are the warmest afternoons of all. we split ways at the end of the station; i go left and you go right, but listening to your heels tap against the concrete even for thirty seconds makes me want to hold you in my arms and never, ever let you go.
the morning you smiled at me, i think my heart stopped momentarily. you had off-white teeth and dimples
ascots and petticoats.i know that you play crosswords just to distractascots and petticoats. by injuredjaw
yourself from your own gray existence. all
those letters in all those boxes ― it reminds you
of sad-eyed animals in the zoo, of your own
face pressed to the glass of so many windows
to help you understand the patterns of falling
rain. the wind is impervious, it is the only
indestructible thing in the world, you think.
the sound of cellos makes you cry. i know this.
the technological term for something
wretched. when you hung your head out
of the window of a moving train, you held the
sunshine between your lips and felt like
you deserved to exist, for the first time in
your life. the entire basis for the american
i know that you think you were born in the
wrong era. there is nothing for you here,
no petticoats or ascots, no spats or top hats
and canes, no men to kiss your hand, no women
to waft your face with d
still.one.still. by create-illusions
her name is alice. there is a slight blood stain on the valley where her lips part, and her eyes are two supermassive black stars that can't show anything but hurt. she can't bring herself to look in the broken mirror puddles that are all over the ground.
(and i don't blame her)
she borrows her mother's raincoat because it smells like home. not the homes that are flooded with laundry soap or soft candles burning in the family room, but more like the paint she spilled on the carpet, or the whiskey on her father's breath.
(and sometimes, she swears she can smell her mother's sadness.)
when alice was little she remembers playing freeze tag with her mother. she remembers feeling anxious, and now she feels sick. "if daddy touches you, stay still, and don't make a sound."
strings of pearls and breathunderwater they are mermaids. patterns of poolwater-caught sunshine dancing in soft-edged white upon their long legs (tails). red hair like ocean fire and fingers ever reaching for the bubbles, like pearls but from out their mouths. darting up between their fingers.strings of pearls and breath by Pretty-As-A-Picture
there are places here, beneath here, beneath the sound of their mother yelling at their father and the loud rough of the neighbours dogs bark, where they can breathe. breathe the dead leaves in water whirlpools beneath their feet and breathe the chlorine, leaving eyes red and hair green at the tips. breathe the quiet of their bodies and their imagined underwater world, so colour-dipped and alive.
their eyes are closed tight and they press their heads together, on the pool steps. one holds the others hand and together they love a love that is shimmer on water waves edge, pink casing on sundown clouds and toe nails with pink polish peeling. they love and in the silence of their love (and sound of life