Picking Up

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The steel drums have stopped and all of a sudden processions of people in broken black come from the underground, the witching hour has come around.
Sparkles in the brass cuffs of the stairs go unnoticed as they eye up what you wear, the way you chose to do your hair.

Where before white, peaceful walls had lead to a breezy space where classical music played, now people tut and huff at others in the wrong lane; like it’s a cardinal sin, like it’s never been them.
Not me though no, not I, not this time. I gleam over the floor with its flecks of plastic granite and glide down the escalator. On the other side, one by one by one I watch the disappointing faces that I feel I’ve seen a thousand times before, examining them for traces of someone else, something more.
I wonder the chances of seeing someone you might actually want to see in these little church carriages, the frequent home of runaway girls. Where heads bow low to books and phones, until it stops and new commuters get on. We look each other up and down, it seems to quantify the danger or desire around – both were always zero I had found.
As I watch their self-made halos dance, fallen on their faces from their brows, I work out the likelihood to be 0.000000115874855% – though, I comfort myself that it can be much easier in dreams.

So shall I take all the colours and all the lines, and with this pallet paint your face? Like I’m heaven’s colour man.
Just leave your portrait up to fate, and get another train, just in case.

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