passing a rally on the tram between battles and a book I won't finish: kaffirs with pots and pans scream for justice by the library. I hadn't known I'd missed it til the chants came through the windows. all too late and tied to discount dinner plans. with a schedule of new places to be I'll be missing almost every chance to join the demonstrations. no choice but to do my best on my own and watch the bombs drop on my phone.
I breathe clouds into new neighbourhoods. ride my bike down tram lines, sing for passing cars. reading street signs for directions to something more than just the places I can be. I chew on stories sold by billboards by the path. the incinerator gallery hosts a playground project for kids on the way to the park. metaphors and nothing more than names this far from all the blood.
we fill the abandoned room with pillows and potential. the mystic says it means something, a strange time in her life, etc. the cat yawns and pouts for quiet. just happy to have somewhere else to sleep.
nights are cold without you or the cat; hands and lips can only do so much in dreams. we miss the bus and hide in the bathroom. you wear my clothes and they fit much better round your limbs. your laugh is poison to tomorrow in your absence. mornings are ice and I wear my gloves to school. have you swam since Tallow Beach?
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