zinzinish

that really, there’s something erotic about the way a boy, a boy you don’t know, a boy with tired, red eyes, and mile-long lashes, and pink pillowy lips, tugs to rearrange the crotch of his pants on the metro seat across from you. that it should be something vulgar, but now something raw and unselfconcious.

that from the back, you thought he was from the banlieue, one of the boys leaning against some beautiful wall, shouting ‘bon soir’ and smiling suggestively as you make your way home, late into the night. a boy with hair spiked to a point in a 45 degree angle, favoring one side or the other according to mood.

but he sits across from you, and his face is so soft it makes you ache. and he’s so so sleepy and you wish you could reassure him that tomorrow, tomorrow when he wakes up, the film of visual debris and harshness of the lights caused by overfatigue will lift and the world will make a lot more sense.

but he’s too tired now, so it’s my turn; and he’ll think fate some other day.