Impromptu Poetry And The Like

This girl.

On the bus, rubbing her head.

Sat next to me. No doubt by mistake.

And those legs – shaved.

Just the day before yesterday, reveals the glinting immature blonde hairs that barely escape her skin’s surface.

And those shorts, the only reason she has to.

The fashionable high cut rolled up kind, in school uniform blue.

And those arms, round, smooth and almost as hairless as the legs.

And the shirt, and the hair is all the rest of what I can see.

Perfectly dyed the darkest of blues, ruining her inherently tanned skin.

The curling wand waves, the mousse, the brush lines.

And me.

Next to her.

Calculating, mad.

Me, those tights, stockings. Worn explicitly to show the boys, crushing. Practical in some ways.

That kilt, expensive, indulgent. Those lines, those misplaced pleats right over the thighs.

Those badges and pins of Emo and individuality.

The nails, the perfectly black nails, wearing at the translucent tip.

The shirt, the hair. The purposely plucked curls around the ears.

That messy look with turned up spikes at the back. Radical, what-the-fuck-is-that, satellite dish flower. Doesn’t take long but is purposefully messy.

And her.

She sits.

And I, I sit.

And we wait, alone, eyes open... but strangers.

My effort at something random and creative akin to free verse poetry. I have been having an excellently creative time lately. You can also view my efforts on The Shadow Box.

☆Anika☆