Unseen-wonder

I can still taste smoke and it's getting old now. older than china tea cups and laddered tights and -- cigarettes aren't pretty and one day your lungs will tell you so. quit whilst your ahead. I forgot the boy with the bright hair and I told tales that date back so far I forget their names and I heard my own voice like a echo of someone who I didn't recognise. I'd show you a slideshow of how I fall apart at every hurdle and tell you to run for the hills or sooner or later you'll see for yourself.

you wrote essays about revolutions and dictatorships, whilst I tried to read you poetry about night drives through Italy. we worked together, yet separate. you on your numbers, and me on my language until we grew bored of library stacks and interested in each other. the winter wove us together until I collected my days just to share them with you. I teased you about leaking roofs and routines, you made fun of my cold feet and reading glasses until we thought we were fluent in each other. I noticed you sneaking glances as you changed gear though we never would have admitted to it. speedometers drop, and scenery changes, yet the

so, i ignore your phone calls over and over, because i don't know how to tell you, that i've run away with myself. the grass wasn't greener on the other side.

you told me not to put the knives in the kitchen sink. [in case they lurk, out of sight, hidden in suds. Waiting for my fingers, to plunge into the depths. in a false sense of security.]

i. simon's brother threatened to throw a brick through his living room window when we were fourteen. i sat with my cheek against the chains of a swing set, and amy whispered that his dad was ill, his mum as quick to flip as a light switch. simon's brother is scary. His face a weird red, his words running together too fast to hear. i went home and hoped simon was okay, for a full five minutes before i fell asleep. ii. simon's girlfriend sits opposite me in the last year of art. i paint stacks of books and playing cards. she paints tattooed skin, and tells me secrets that i don't want to know. i am painting a sunset, brambles silhouetted

The hands on the clock are moving, spinning without anyone touching them, and I'm sitting at this desk and typing my story, but no one's moving the hands of that clock. Nobody's making them do anything; they just do it—because they want to. It's their purpose, to spin for us, provide us with time limits, limitations upon our creativity. I envy the hands. I'm spinning too, but only because I have to. Every morning the puppet master plucked me unceremoniously from my bed and told me to dance. So I did. I'm a part of him for now, joined to him with strings, super glued to my hands and feet, and they're not designed to be broken. My feet are

he's always been the kind of boy that won't see twentyfive. the one who'll jump on the back of a moterbike and colide with a lampost heavily laden with christmas lights. he's the sort to fall in love moments after his eyes traced your face. he had the right sort of intuition with those things, you know? he's the type to laugh when he trips in a crowded highstreet. 'oh i knew him, typical lad, one of the boys' they'd say long after his demise. but i knew better. he was the sort to write letters to his ribcage and leave post it notes for a god he's not sure exists. because i remember. the letters have long decayed and the glow he le