Elle va bien

They jostled onto the train that had arrived with a clankering commotion at the station. The vaulted tiled ceiling of the underground station swirled with the sound of metal, tannoy announcements and tourist hubbub. The train had emptied somewhat, spilling out its human cargo which shuffled towards the luminous sortie signs, the basic words even foreigners understood, ingrained from childhood French lessons and the trappings of travel. They were able to get seats as the train pulled away and snaked into the belly of the city, passing tunnels and bones of the long forgotten.

The seats were as hard as wood, worn down from millions of asses thankful of somewhere to rest for the short journeys between stations. They were heading down towards Saint-Marcel and thankful too to be getting away from the crush and pull of the touristy hot-spots. They watched the other passengers engrossed in smart phones, conversations and anxieties of potentially going the wrong direction. Passengers on life’s train of happenstance.

Opposite them sat a lady, listening to her headphones and glancing off into the train. Looking, but searching for nothing. Her brown hair fell around her face, framing her like a motionless portrait typical of those seen meters above in the many museums dotting the city. She sat motionless, listening to her music as the train swayed and hummed down the line. The only movement was a collection of tears that suddenly began to build and breach, trickling down her face. They watched as she tilted her head down, blinking away the collection of tears and emotions that had appeared. One of them jabbed the other in the side, bringing attention to the scene before them in case it was not being seen or felt for the degree that it was. He reached inside his pocket and took out a tissue, hoping it was clean. The crinkles indicated it had been with him all the day, but looked devoid of anything unpleasant.

He reached across and gently touched her arm. She looked up, surprised. “Are you okay?” he asked, hoping his eye’s spoke to a level beyond the language required. She nodded and mumbled words of appreciation, taking the tissue and dabbing her eyes. A small smile appearing at the corner of her mouth, her eyes shaking away an embarrassment that wasn’t necessary.

She looked above her finding the line map, a tiny yellow light indicated they were at Bastille. The train usually emptied a lot here, and she glanced around seeing those exiting and the people awaiting to board. Her hand found the phone in her pocket and she skipped the track on her music. The new song crashed in, her mind was suddenly taken elsewhere as her heart skipped and beat and the chaos around her ebbed away. It had never been ‘their song’, but it was always one that had reminded her of them. The lyrics so seemingly fitting for what they had, what had burrowed inside of her and warmed her soul. She did not notice the two guys sit down opposite her, the limited space between where their knees nearly met. She was off elsewhere, hearing laughter and smelling that someone on her bed-sheets.

The train jerked, and though she stayed in her memory, it shifted; along with the train. It had all crumbled, corroded only yesterday. Smashed liked a teetering tea cup on the edge of a kitchen counter. She could understand things not working right now, she could even acknowledge the arguing. But those had been usual relationship problems. To be told you were no longer needed, that you were no longer welcome in their life. That was what had hurt. She could deal with the packing up of possession and the moving on. Going into work the next day as routine propelled her forward. But she could not take the hurt that had ignited within, perhaps lying dormant for the inevitable. That she was never the one, she could no longer make them happy. All that she had to offer, came up short. All those reasons she had told herself why she was inadequate rang out to be real in a horrible realisation of truth. A view she had shielded her eyes from, like looking at the sun. It had swallowed her, submerged her in a grey that clung to her like oil.

Putting on her work clothes, combing her brown hair. Seeing the day instead of cowering in her bed like she wanted. The feeling of detachment and lack lay upon her, making her feel that no one really cared about her in this world. If she turned up to work, or not; nothing really mattered in a way. The tears welled and broke forth, streaming down her cheek in a warm river. She had forgotten she was on the metro. Her mother would have been ashamed to see her show such emotion in public, but she did not realise. Too consumed in grief and self-piety that she found herself deep beneath the streets of Paris on a Metro train that ran all day, every day. Until she felt something nudge her arm, softly yet foreign. She looked up surprised to see a small tissue and concerned smiles greet her. She nodded a thanks and was able to cough up “Merci, je vais bien.” She smiled slightly, knowing it was true.

The grey was still within her, but in that moment a tiny part had turned to white.

Following the flotsam

Twilight dances, the wild alive and static.
Fingertips on edge, itching for the sun.
A tantric lullaby to soothe and comatose.
Sing me to sleep with oceanic melodies.
Ones you found in those subterranean caverns.
Notes glide like crests of waves.
Kissing my brain.
Stealing my tremor urge of feet wandering.
Making for the door.
I sailed around the sky, and anchored to your heart.
Searching for myself, yet finding you at the ends of the earth.
Careful not to fall.
To plummet into my own destruction.
Cursing blindly at them all that the world is flat.
While you slip inside and spin my rhythm.
Pushing me off the horizon.
And sailing to the stars.

Morning song

That vibration I feel in my bones.
Shaking out of DNA. Stripping away my skin.
I know it’s her.
Playing that moodful sound of solitude.
Tickling the ivories of my skull.
I know where to find her, she never leaves.
In the space I’ve carved out for her to haunt.
Floating on the tide of my mind.
But she is more than just music or itching beauty.
She resides as always under my skin, deep in my soul.
Playing with magic and the mucus of change.
A star shaped heart, orbiting my lust.
Little by little, she separates my sadness to dust.

Temporary shelter

We slipped again, into the night.
Out of view.
Known only that we were here by the stories they tell.
Fabrications and fables.
Drops of disillusionments that melt their trustful hearts.
We wander, as they wonder why.
All around us keeps on spinning.
Our own rotational axis that keeps on thinning.
Down into splitting heirs.
Putting matchsticks between your teeth.
Setting the enamelled house to fire.
Write these reasons on the back our hands.
Staple your own destiny to your eyelids.
Then once again play that mournful song of tomorrow.
And disappear into today’s setting sun.

Weathered feathers

Until they find you there, covered in wax and burning from within.
There will be a need to kneel.
To talk to you in whispered words only the soul can understand.
From pages fringed with gold and tears.
Pages of the past and covered in time.
I read you like braille, touching your skin to a language of saying.
Wanting and needing to be heard.
I kiss your lips and cough up feathers.
Careful not to cut my fingers on your golden crown.
Or the miraculous poisoned arrow aimed at me.
Taking toxins to tantalise my tongue.
They will discover, and they will see.
A long forgotten way of being, a substance not of this earth.
For which I know all too well.
For I am under that spell.
Paralysed in a plume of dove white radiance.
Playing the music of love on my heart.

E#

Play me once more, that chamber music of my soul.
Tickling your fingers on my ivory heart.
Such intimate behaviour.
No release.
Like wild roaming beasts.
Trampling through my forest.
Bear me no mind, cause me no trouble.
Such wild bird emotions you set free each time.
That you whisper my name.
That you call to my heart.
Shivering down each vertebrae.
Snap at the heels of my passion.
Feathered in the down of where I lay.
Where you leave me trembling.
Shaking in the thoughts of your behaviour.
Crying out for mother earth to swallow me again.

Offer

Inside my hands, gold and diamonds sparkle.
Their shine fades in your eyes.
Reduced to lead and coal.
Out of my tongue sweet words trickle.
Caught up with cotton candy and sincerity.
Such bitter tastes to your ears.
I offer my heart, the most valued treasure.
And all you see is an organ of despair.
Sounding such sombre music.
With its dying rasps.
Yet still you owe me nothing in return.

I see red

My eyes itch and my heart heaves.
Reading over and over.
Line after line.
Pulling me out of traffic, pulling me into your frame.
Surround yourself with good intentions.
A swirling world of your black and white.
Yet all I see is red.
The swan song that you misunderstand.
Plucking my heartstrings for the correct rhythm.
The right sound.
Colour your lines. Careful now, make it pretty.
This is the page we’re on, this is the hymn we’ll sing.
My story snipped down to a footnote.
A sentence that mice can devour.
In your book of course.
What was I thinking?