We’d met before. Somewhere out there, under the blizzard of gleaming infrastructure. Both of us, inattentive, gone overground in the wrong direction, unsure what we’d find at the end of the line. But staying on board simply to see how cold it was. We shared a curry on a dingy street of older houses, one of the few low-rise options left. All that pent-up memory under brutal walkways. We talked like two faulty taps: our words either gushing in torrents or reluctant as a trickle. She spoke about ‘colour prejudice’ in the way my mother would have. Owning no parallel backstory, I frowned; left to question my own false footsteps.
biting wind, warm spice
run-off stains the concrete slabs
unhealed wounds surface
v. 2026
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