Art by Hexephra. Own work only - reblogs and inspiration can be found at hexephra.tumblr.com
1. Everything is up in fire
as you are leaving and
the trees seem to reflect
the last of the glorious dying sun.
2. I watch great clumps of snow tumble
from the blank sky into the blank world
and I stick my tongue out and
catch flakes alone.
3. All decked out in rubber boots and
yellow raincoats, we jump
from puddle to mud puddle and
push baby tulips into the soil.
4. Let’s lie in the grass in our
shorts and Ts and wish upon
shooting stars that we’ll be like this
He sits down next to you in the bus and your life is
You are looking away but
you can see his reflection in the window -
it deconstructs itself,
a freckle under his right eye,
and the flecks of silver in his irises.
And then he looks out the window too and
he can’t be looking at you, he can’t he can’t,
but the light plays tricks - it always does -
the reflection of his pupils shoots like a laser right into
he’s humming your favourite song.
the change, the space you didn’t know existed:
it’s a thousand questions
a million details
He reaches across you to press the button to make the bus stop -
for him to be able to stop a bus with one finger, isn’t that amazing? -
and as he draws back he brushes your hair with his sleeve
just his sleeve
and his hand draws your eyes to him like an invisible string.
And he smiles at you and says,
In an instant you realize you will never know
whether he hates airplane rides or
if his mother made him artichoke soup once in his life or
why his favourite shade of blue is like the sky on ecstasy.
His name starts with an R or a T or one of twenty-four other letters,
his music style and yours make a Venn diagram,
and his foot is out the door.
But you know the sound of his voice,
the shine of those silvery flecks,
the brush of his sleeve.
You know how string is made of lots of smaller strings wound together?
One of your fibres came loose and one
of his loose fibres touched yours,
and that’s all.
More old prosetry. My old artist’s comments on this one read: “I was on the plane, thinking about where everyone came from and how none of us will never meet again.”