And I sit here.
I sit and I am warm and everything is heavy. The jacket upon my shoulders drapes down until my wrists. Thin, pale wrists attached to my wrinkled, withered hands. Cracked and underappreciated, they are coarse orange bricks. A dull and hazy orange--worn rust orange. They rest limply and unfolded underneath the pigeon grey masses in transit.
Black rushing feet, blurred shuffling shoes.
I lie on the pavement beneath them, their heels are sharp and harsh and they hurt me. I can see myself in glimpses now when the crowd settles from time to time. I quietly and slowly fold into myself.
A moth folding.
My knees bend towards my forehead and me eyelids rest against the creaking joints. My femur and tibia scrape against one another, whispering a noise inspired by the fracturing of a snake’s spine.
I call for her, knowing she will not come.
I call for her, knowing she is an excuse—not a savior.
-ANNA F-S
I sit and I am warm and everything is heavy. The jacket upon my shoulders drapes down until my wrists. Thin, pale wrists attached to my wrinkled, withered hands. Cracked and underappreciated, they are coarse orange bricks. A dull and hazy orange--worn rust orange. They rest limply and unfolded underneath the pigeon grey masses in transit.
Black rushing feet, blurred shuffling shoes.
I lie on the pavement beneath them, their heels are sharp and harsh and they hurt me. I can see myself in glimpses now when the crowd settles from time to time. I quietly and slowly fold into myself.
A moth folding.
My knees bend towards my forehead and me eyelids rest against the creaking joints. My femur and tibia scrape against one another, whispering a noise inspired by the fracturing of a snake’s spine.
I call for her, knowing she will not come.
I call for her, knowing she is an excuse—not a savior.
-ANNA F-S
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