Make a go of it
Lace my fingers together in a marriage of gardens and stairways, scratched and red.
Look, I see the way she’s standing, she must have been a dancer once, or perhaps still. Nicotine stains on her fingers and teeth and dark bruised looking eyes. Stooped shoulders, feet turned together looking up through badly bleached hair and so heart-breakingly lovely that I dig my nails into my hands and bite my lip until a small drop of blood rolls down my jaw.
See the way she clutches her bag to her chest, her fingers are white with the tension and the pallour of her swollen lips and her skin, her skin.
Her skin is like stained porcelain, like smudged parchment, like violet and cadmium yellow cream, like smoked glass, like marble powdered with soot, like enamel injected with charcoal, like a gleaming scrubbed rose madder glaze over tight white canvas.