The Commuter Monologues // Pt. II
3/8/13
2:15pm
Refugee bobby pins
strewn across the county lines of my apartment
do nothing but remind me
that she is not you.
3:44pm
I fell asleep
lost in the folds of my sheets
and now I am wandering
in folded Grey—
the sea and sky
rudely interrupted by a strip of Horizon,
a splash of lonesome reds and greens and browns.
Caveman scrawling
etched into the ferry benches
cloud my hazy reflection,
revealing a space next to me
that yearns to be filled by you.
6:30pm
Ankles heavy
from winter boots too big,
spent from the constant balancing act
on these wayward buses and trains,
jostling strangers buried in their
newspapers and Bubble Shooter games.
This wintry shroud seems to hang everywhere,
turning headlights into teasing pinpricks of warmth,
expelling a dragon’s breath out of me
with my peppermint-laden sighs.
We stand on the platforms, bored,
waiting to board
tubes in holes we’ve bored
underground.
7:54pm
I weave in and out of
the cold stream of commuters,
peacoat-garnished slabs of boredom and impatience.
The sound of my chuckle
echoes through the belly of the ferry
and I lose myself in the sound
of you through my phone
and suddenly
the Grey has lifted
and spun itself gently into
hazels and teals and maroons
and custard-cream whites
and I am warm again.
12:29am 3/9/13
-A.G.
(Source: theizabelladynamic)
