foxseason

Balanced between chopsticks a pale plump baozi steamed pillowy soft slicked with sweat in the humid restaurant red and gold lanterns tremble as waiters scurry passed the crowded tables the air pulses friends catching up families getting together couples on dates the baozi pale skin meets my lips tenderly the clouds of bread part revealing the rich savoury filling the fragrant five spice and soy sauce wraps itself around my tongue i feel stronger than I even have

The moon is only half full, like that smile. The ones that’s only halfway to your eyes. Half real. Ink bleeds across yellowing parchment, poised, Waiting for the words to come, in a trickle or a gush. But they don’t come. Stars fall out of the sky one by one. All we can do it watch and take videos on our phones.

Mile markers flick by the car window, like the pages of a book This is not an adventure novel. It’s a story of running away, of crimson tail lights, glaring out into the night like evil scowling eyes.

I collect pens like a tiger gathers stripes I carry them with me a tree gaining another spiral with each year that passes I scrawl your name in the margins it’s spent days sitting on the tip of my tongue like peppermint Words tumbling down threading themselves together like pearls on a string I sing them like a hymn and they give me courage

they have started to realise you’re not like them the self deprecating  jokes you tell aren’t fitting right, like an ex's favourite tee and cracks in your mask, where your eyeliner should be, have begun to show they see that you lean too heavily on self medication and aren’t sure what to do with your hands as if you're new to your body and you haven’t worked out the kinks yet trembling legs and fingers your a magazine seven months out of date flipped through in a waiting room without actually looking at the pages You’re mostly left cold as a perfectly fine way to waste time but forgotten when out of sight

I never asked you for perfection. I just wanted us to be happy and content, giggling at all our imperfections. But you are still trying to figure out what happiness looks like to you. And I don't think that's me.

We watch pastel pink and lilac hues interlacing in a majestic swish of sunset engulfing the crisp blueness of autumns sky before plunging into midnights silky navy I listen to your stories, smiling, and pretend I was there too We find comfort in the warmth of your car flicking through radio stations as deep burning oranges and crimsons take flight in the sky overhead We search for symbolism in the songs dripping through the speaks as the sky opens up for us like a moon flower

sometimes i get scared that using a pen and paper is a dying art like newspapers kids now draw on ipads and we all type our idea and thoughts on a keyboard our faces pale in illuminated backlit screens but deep down I know there are some that live by pen and paper they have ink curling around the sides of their palms like smoke and twisting up their fingers smudged letters like a bruise freedom to use the whole part and to change how you use it writing out like a spider web or upside down like glancing at a lakes reflection of the skies above choosing your favourite pen is a task not to be taken lightly it has to float over the gr

I write shaky words in my notebooks messy handwriting others would have to squint and turn the page to decipher scattered snapshots disorganised trying to scrawl down exact phases terrified i can’t get the words out of my head fast night like they might dry up and blow away

Marking days off the calendar in the kitchen is the only way i actually know that time in passing that is there a whole world, alive, out there For days now the fickle sky has been cloaked in grey dark grey something between rain and sleet hurled down All I have seen for days is white and grey and the calendar and the marks i make rain soaks the hours right on into the small hours of the morning I can’t remember what sunrise looks like tell me, what do colours feel like?