In a place where the lines aren't so clearly defined, they meet, unlocking rusty doors.
Hair pins don't open locks. Stones do.
The walls are a sickly shade of green, the bricks hidden under years of dirt and moss. The backs of their shirts are powdered with dust; the fronts of their shirts are all creased.
They speak of things they don't dare speak of otherwise. Love that is found in their coded text messages and their furtive glances across crowded places. The kind that will tear them apart, in several pieces, should anyone find out about it.
Silence and the occasional snuffle. Silence and ragged breath and small sounds that are nervously happy. Silence.
Under the fragmented sky, that they can see from between the concrete, they look at kites that are lost, fluttering red specks against the clouds, far away from where they are.
As the golden brown evening light melts away into inky blue evenings, they pick themselves up and walk away. Separately together.
Innumerable stories. So many people with their feelings locked away in rooms. So many people with moss stained clothes. So many.
Their nails will always remain chipped, their throats will remain parched; a reminder of a day when the sun set behind them and the room looked jaundiced.
Hair pins don't open locks. Stones do.
The walls are a sickly shade of green, the bricks hidden under years of dirt and moss. The backs of their shirts are powdered with dust; the fronts of their shirts are all creased.
They speak of things they don't dare speak of otherwise. Love that is found in their coded text messages and their furtive glances across crowded places. The kind that will tear them apart, in several pieces, should anyone find out about it.
Silence and the occasional snuffle. Silence and ragged breath and small sounds that are nervously happy. Silence.
Under the fragmented sky, that they can see from between the concrete, they look at kites that are lost, fluttering red specks against the clouds, far away from where they are.
As the golden brown evening light melts away into inky blue evenings, they pick themselves up and walk away. Separately together.
Innumerable stories. So many people with their feelings locked away in rooms. So many people with moss stained clothes. So many.
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