I inhale your breath and wait for the air around me to defuse, the tea leaves spin and whirl while somewhere some chance unit of distance away (metres, feet, miles) a girl in an aviator cap rides the train past lively graffitied factories, modern impressionist scrawls on industrial canvasses, waiting for you to return. You look sweet while you’re asleep; I hold your hand (you would probably jerk away were you awake, it’s too deep, too soon, too meaningful) in hope to keep you for a while in the unearthly here-now where you lie next to me feigning respectable slumber. Still, in the vaguest distance she travels surely, moving nearer or perhaps farther from this unidentifiable closeness, ghost-like, bearing the threat of importance and a set of headphones clutched in bird boned hands, delicate but enchanted, harboring the ability to fly. I lie here still in the Spring light, lead weighted, unable to move or speak even for the luke warm tea sitting and swirling on the counter in a strange symbiotic sympathy with my thoughts. With you next to me on this morning, I just sit and clutch and breathe, for there is nothing else to do.
Writing done on trains back from parties, dug up from a while ago.