Come with music or don't. She can't sit in silence with you anymore. Even your little mustache knows it and speaks of it as you smoke. She prefers to stay on roads, walk around with people, listen to them giggle and forget whom they are laughing at. She will drink coffee now, not whiskey and Centre Fresh stained blow-backs of King's Gold. She likes her new rings, what if they are different from what you liked before. He never comes in any more and people wonder whose memories is she blasting on. What are these vague little vignettes, are they shoplifted from a hustler? Who caught her canoodling with a stranger on the tenth turn of a rainy street? And why did he never ask her, what she really wanted. People loved making up spaces to cut some. They took her's too. So if she talked back and said she could be loved, she was quietly slipped into muck. But there were voices to always cheer her. They rose from a city and traveled to another. They held unapologetic mirrors to your nudity. You are naked, woman. Bitches are screening it all over. This mall knows your hidden fact and the radium flashes too. Winds sweep into your bag to inform this 'other'. The 'other'. What is this? The new lover? The new conceit? We are not counterfeit. Real ones get fucked over more. That city wore that rule before you came in. You just moved along and released terrors. Just be in love with her, that is all she will ever want.
She is a pricey skank, she and that city. And this new pimp she found too.
(Picture by Anagha Mareesha)
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