Results DayFrankly, this was getting a bit ridiculous.Shed had them for over an hour now, clutched in her suspiciously damp palm, but the only indicator that shed even tried to open them was a slight loosening of the envelope flap on one side. And that hadnt ended well. It wasnt that she was scared of the results, per say
Just that she would be perfectly happy with never knowing what they were, and continuing her life in blissful ignorance. At least until she went back to school.Come on, she urged herself. Come on. Theres more to me than this, it isnt the be-all and end-all. This doesnt define who I am, just how well I do under pressure.Last year had been different: last year had been better. Shed opened them alone, in a tent in France, without the prying eyes of curious family or friends. This year, it had been extremely difficult to grab her results from school, and escape without anybody noticing her and demanding
public transporttoday, i feel like saying, "dear x,i went up an escalator today andi missed you." i want to say,"i missed you on the tube, andbeneath the bridge, in all thosecold, damp places that somehow,we made belong to us."
traces.i.it occurs to me on a coach,in the early hours of the morning,that i've forgotten your hands.i've left them, curled around a mugon a stained kitchen worktop,pinkie comically raised.you always said that mannerswere your fatal flaw.ii.it occurs to me too,that i've forgotten your smile.or at least the teeth in it.i distinctly remember one rollingbetween the carpet and the wall,and another, i threw into the toilet.i find myself caculating calcium density,and wondering:do teeth float?iii.we've just reached switzerland,when mountains remind me:there is blood in my freezer.iv.there are traces of you everywhere.no longer beneath my fingernails, or caughtbetween my teeth, but insteadimprinted on my retinas, and hiddenin the crevices of a night-time mind.
it feels like winter.i can, i can tryto replace you with sugary tea,but you were never that sweetand couldn't blister my palm.and besides, you preferred to havea lemon slice and a kiss with your earl greyand i've run out of both.i can abandon rational thoughtand capital lettersbut i can't, i can't stop thinkingin drawn-out vowels.but it's okay, it's okay.i walked down a hill this morningand didn't think of you once.
The Late TrainThere's nothing that can be compared to this: the first shy nose-brushings and the stutterings, the slow hum of the train beneath you. You could kiss him your lips are brushing his cheek but his hands are clutching yours so tightly that he cant bring himself to let go. The stops blur into each other and he hasnt explained, he hasnt said a word, but it doesnt matter, it doesnt matter at all. The words youve left unsaid cant compare to his offer to walk you back home because he knows that you fear faceless monsters sliding out of the dustbins or how he tangles his hands in your hair like he's trying to find something to ground himself, or how he holds his hand palm-up and waits, as if he's too scared to clasp your fingers, as if he's afraid he might break you.Youre always finding excuses to go on long train journeys at ridiculous times, so that you can have the entire carriage to yourselves and just be, eating sandwich
I don't believe in 'always'"you flinched," he says, a spacewhere lips had been before.no longer touching, we remainsilent.