Bits.

Did she run away again.
Making so much 'little effort' that the walls ached from all that approached,
intense in waiting.
Could've carried out three different notes,
but she stuck on the latter of things.
Perhaps raised voices of aged women scared her.
Perhaps tea wasn't just 'sweet enough'
And dreams of emotions she'd felt before, but visually
did thrive through the nights the heating was left on.
Moments like bitter felt, wordless greeting cards
and Momentums such as clean, round pots of moisturizer
and lactoste milk.
I recalled the smell of the wood by the fridge,
as a child sneaking chocolate from it's noisily accessible depths,
But kinder faces shon over.

She wondered where to go,
but only once already on the train.
The leaves driving past on the trees at her booth's window,
swished into one such as a paint pallette tilting,
And with it her head lulled,
and a passing stranger called for 'any one who was a doctor'
And her eyes felt so dry, cracking open, so raw.
Her throat was a blister of a direct route to the depths of her insides.
But pale warmth, the fridge as the child left out in the sun.
Losing will, the dull white of the room around her gave a metal clunk of a sigh from it's walls.
She only looked as far as the post at the end of this metal framed bed,
and he writhed one de-frosted hand beneath the scratch of tight cotton spread.
The door blended in with the walls in this room,
and she settled upon calling it Ivory,
not cream.

Oh look at that, said the creak in the wall.
And a birds shadow skipped over the room,
The bones in her neck, attaching her head
scathed percutaneously.
The sun was grey today, and the trees were a canvas just done,
but the houses outside, shon different oranges, brick-a-brack sweet
and council fresh.

Homely, she lifted the blanket from tuck. Swayed her dress along with legs around and down from the bed.
Such pretty shoes, her broken toes fit wonderfully.
Did she already know?
Hearing the wireless in the other room.

A glance, a shudder, a complete freeze within her stomach,
did bring empathy to disco rooms.
'You've inspired me'
And not long later, half the bottle was full.
Optimistic girls in tights and waistband-dresses
Such ways did the boys pop their collars that the combe did protude from the sleeve.

But what do i think ?!
What do i think?
I kept recalling the fridge until some one gasped
a claim of not knowing what i think,
but questioning me once more with my own output.


Conversation. Small talk appears to be creeping up, and luring beside us. I hate it when it reaches that point due to physcical contact.