.

Keyboards are abominable creations. The letters are too brazen. Stare by stare, we pass the time frowning at one another, each trying to provoke a reaction. The keys dare me to hit them, and I do. Dupable to the end.

Prints-first, my fingers tap, tap, tap away, not bothering to stop and take stock. Idiots. Every mindless digit. A carnage of A's E's and I's splay across the page. Consonants are scattered about; ink splattered dead on a red, red stage. Words. Who ever let me get a hold of them? Words are for wordsmiths; delicate, and to be used with care. When did I ever heed such a warning?

Do me a favour? Break my fingers?

Headed for a fallout.

I can't think of you without hearing something hiss.

You were always good at hissing. The air rushed through the walls of your teeth with a strange musicality; a soundscape of double-talk and betrayal. I don't know when it was that you became such a monumental hypocrite, but dear, such is life - say 'hello gorgeous' and greet the face in the mirror. We're taking bets on whether you can find yours.

I'm furious at you, really, I am. Bidding me to snap out of this and that - though you're surely an expert on snapping by now, I wish you would bite your tongue; bite it off and never bother me again with your fucking scolding.

Instead, you bray liberally about things that aren't important to either of us anymore. You take what's offered and use it as necessary, discarding the leftovers when they become too heavy for your featherlight loyalties.

The tea's done, the tea's done.

I think I hear the kettle boil.

myskine.

I can picture the tiny, black notebook- its flaccid elastic unable to deter prying eyes.

Shiny and square, gleaming against the lurid vinyl of the train seat.

"Ice-Cream for the Uninitiated.
Two scoops.
Ignorant Bliss.
A sprinkle of Nuts.
Cherry-on-top."

He was beyond ice-cream. He leaned with accusing grace.
Speaking to the girl in the candy stripe pinny and ridiculous hat, over his shoulder.
Who could blame him?
Who could blame me- standing there watching the train trundle away. My poor notebook halfway to someone else now.
Across from the station I was living life.
Weeks of glances, shy smiles, crooked grins (Thank you romance novels)

He was made of guttural sounds.
I was gutter-all.
Missing my train, in this unwholesome alley. One of his hands kept us propped against the wrought iron fence, the other moved up and down with practiced urgency. He was playing an instrument, begging for the right sound. (Oh, curse those romance novels!)

I was watching the air escape me. It unfurled like ribbons and disappeared into the cool night air.

Completely undone.


And all I can picture is the tiny. black notebook.