it wasn’t the big blue of them that turned your lacrymal ducts into taps but
the long black words, and what happened later. even when
her skirt flew up, you only managed a
lower-case smile .
the day was glass-coloured. you breathed through pricked holes.
sucked on angst like nicotine.
sure, you (don’t) want to know is she a better fuck?
but more, is she a better fucking writer?
you saw one at first, then another but you let it
and then, like drops before the storm, pops
of it: cars, slow downs, construction jackets, bin lids, bags,
like a series of visual pinches
that’s when you cried
on the street in front of
the chinese chick with Sailor Moon hair and
the boy you would have checked out on a drier afternoon.
three taxis, a banana peel, your own reflection
(well, it is the colour of sickness)
a leaflet on the floor
you stopped seeing other colours. there were no other colours.
and it is only when you got home and saw
the fragile pinkness of your eyes that you realised
there is always everything,
no matter what you choose to see
there is a picture of you as a kid,
wearing a prison-striped t-shirt that you loved.
and you remember
that the collar was yellow.
and you fucking hated yellow.