By Charlie Dixon
Cold concrete seeps
through denim,
worms its way in, and
settles in the centre of your chest.
It beats with the
barbarous chit-chat of heinous daydreams
written across the
walls of bathroom cubicles.
There’s a girl with a
guitar on the corner.
She’s singing Nirvana
in time with
the sound of an
approaching train.
I wonder about other
lifetimes.
Could we have been
friends, once?
The music fades out as
the doors close behind us.
Then, four more stops
on the Northern line.
We’re in an entirely
different world from the last.
It’s that easy.
The city doesn’t sleep
with the sky,
but Embankment, notably
quieter in the evening.
The air moves a little
more freely
in the dusted glow of a
streetlight.
London’s pretty when
the sun sets right.
A showcase of its own
artistry reflected
in the eyes of a
stranger, or a storefront window.
The skyline paints the
pavement red,
flows through the spaces
between rusted metal bars
in ribbons of orange
and pink.
The leaves are
beginning to change...
About the Author:
Charlie Dixon is a queer writer from the north of England. Having recently
completed an MA in creative writing, she is branching out into the industry
with the primary aim of understanding, and of being understood.
