The sky is finger-smudged with charcoal. There’s light through the windows, but it’s dull. There’s a smile on his lips, but it’s fading He ties up his boots like his eyes are wrapped around the laces; like the sky is planning on falling if the knots are imperfect. Shards of color are dropping like bricks from a wall.
Cigarette smoke incites my nose as I try and inhale through the hair that sticks to my forehead. Something smells like lavender but I can’t make it out through the stench of people on top of people. I feel like I'm at the airport.
Somewhere, the human soul is on fire, but presently it’s rather lukewarm. Here, it’s instant and microwavable and you just have to add water. There are too many bicycles on the sidewalk, too many faces to keep track of. I think I’ve forgotten his name, but I can’t be too sure. Perhaps it will come to me as my heels hit the pavement and I try to walk myself home without stumbling over minor character flaws and uneven asphalt.
I look down, but all I see are my bare feet. It’s starting to rain as my eyesight gets cloudy. I crave the unfeeling lobby of a no name hotel where one could get their shoes polished, or casually eavesdrop with the help of a newspaper. So maybe something is missing.
My finger gets pricked on a patch of briar bushes, or maybe some barbed wire. The blood drips worse than it does when I bite my lip. It stings, but I can’t taste the metallic on my tongue.
I feel a little more than dizzy, but I go through the motions of breathing. I swivel a bit of recycled air through my lungs. I drag on life through my open lips, and it’s intoxicating.