She is…

Lipstick stains on pale skin. Cold hands under hot running water. Frayed edges on a second-hand jumper. Smoke passed from lips to lips. Dark nights. Cool eyes. She is too bitter coffee and too sweet chai. Frost in the dawn light. Flickering street signs. Pale stage lights. She is the intrusive thought you can’t get out of your mind. A bus that never arrives. Ash on the side. Broken glass on abandoned streets. Cool air blasted from the car AC. Windows left wide open. She is the cracked sidewalk. Chipped stones. Tar melting in the middle of the road. The blank space in between the stars. She is hair swept back in the wind. Tunnels that end in the dark. Horror movies in the early hour of the morning. Strangers you pass by. Smudged eyeliner. Running mascara. Bursts of noise. She is seeing an old friend at the wrong time. Someone far too important to tell your parents about. Flat stones skimmed over lakes. The sound of cracking ice. Warm liquid in an empty stomach. Dog eared books. Stained jeans. Freshly ground coffee beans. She is stumbling over her own feet in the dark. Calls from unknown numbers. Rain hitting tin roofs. Skin stained with ink. Crumpled photographs. She is the sock that is lost in the wash. Scuffs on leather boots. Burnt out candles. Flickering lights. The radio cranked up far too high. Over chewed gum. She is sitting on a swing set in an abandoned playground in the middle of the night. Dogs barking. Moths bumping into the light. Shallow laughter. Burnt fingers. Cracking chalk. Feedback through an amp. She is just another hour till closing time.

Originally published in Poetry New Zealand Yearbook 2020, p. 210.