the windows are a soft black, with pinpricks of orange lights in the distance. she's got her head bowed, there is a book on her lap she's looking thoughtfully at. the pages are yellow and faded, crinked with decade-old dreams. she's savouring each word carefully, ink spirits on white sheet.
for a while, after he sat down opposite her, she doesn't sense him. she's staring at a letter, an alphabet, 'O', she's shaping with her eyes the roundedness of it. it's solid, it's empty. what are you reading, he asks, which startles her and makes her unable to speak immediately.
a poem, she says, after she recovers her wits. a love poem. this said almost sheepishly.
may i? he indicates with his right hand.
she watches him read. he reads the same way as she does, chin tucked down, hair falling into eyes, thumb at side of page. his hair is a soft black. she looks at him thoughtfully. his locks of hair are spirits. of hope and of dreams.
for a while, after he sat down opposite her, she doesn't sense him. she's staring at a letter, an alphabet, 'O', she's shaping with her eyes the roundedness of it. it's solid, it's empty. what are you reading, he asks, which startles her and makes her unable to speak immediately.
a poem, she says, after she recovers her wits. a love poem. this said almost sheepishly.
may i? he indicates with his right hand.
she watches him read. he reads the same way as she does, chin tucked down, hair falling into eyes, thumb at side of page. his hair is a soft black. she looks at him thoughtfully. his locks of hair are spirits. of hope and of dreams.
location: written on train from london euston
feeling:
tired
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