A Monday Night Digression

Bus stations at sunset can be difficult places.

Solitude

I hear the colors of solitude run down my bare arm. I close my hand and tear slender moons in my palm as old scars wax from white to red in the damp chill.

I hear the colors of solitude flow over the scratched glass. I lean against the metal spine, my heartbeat bitterly purple as the sky goes blacker than my pulse.

I hear the colors of solitude race through the empty square. I pace in the enclosure like a story without a moral, like a brush without a canvas, like a thorn without a rose.

I hear the colors of solitude, and wish they would speak to me.

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1 Comment

  1. Solitude and sunset have much in common. Both have their own weight, their own tangibility, that feeling of settling over you, heavy, weighty with expectation unvoiced.

    I rarely do what’s expected. I sing at bus stops. I read, sometimes. Bring out whatever busywork I have with me that day, be it beading, cross-stitch, mending, or just a notebook for writing down plot complications and poetic inspiration.

    When all else fails, I practice artful cane-twirling. :)


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