1) Hydrogen Buses and Watery Scleras

Indigo barbs interweave, like many tiny petals competing for oxygen, like an exploding violet butterfly sparkling in the half-lit –daylight; morning, repeated-'mourning'. I stand there, my lips, red with scorn, yet pale from constricted circulation, holding separate hands in one, cold finger tips intertwined, their only company.

I wait there; I take it- the plastic sounds that drown out floating ideal chatter and wandering eyes. I wish the train would melt upon arrival- boil and bubble like magical-pea soup from a witches cauldron. I’d drink it all down. My nostrils twitch and left-foot dance with the bitter, smoky air. My sclera’s coat drips sweet saline and soaks up my blush. My feet sense the ground til senseless. Then, as feeling leaves and the artificial fuzz dulls, a universal sound of exasperation is let out. It’s here, the train is finally here.

Someone with a superior-uniform and neatly combed-back frills tells us all to move to the end. We all scuttle in unison, like confused insects, our curious antennas fondling at the nothingness, our glands expelling subtle-setting pheromones so that we know who is who, what is forward, what is back. I’m lodged between a sickeningly endearing couple and a teenager with a young, stretched body and elderly face. He smiles, I think, to me (least I’d like), but no one would smile at me; no one would even look up. He must know this. I look at him, I tell him and as our eyes meet and his head turns away.. I don’t blame him. Interest never ignites in bloodshot skin and obese necks. The train cries its mechanical woe; the environment applauds the hydrogen buses, the teenager turns around.
We roll on.