Tit Hall Wall

A rush of wind… it rattles in your disposable coffee cup. I become aware of its emptiness.


“Should we cut soon?”


A wayward ginger curl obscures your tired eyes, still swollen from another week of sleepless nights.


“5 more mins?”


“Alright,”


I think we’ve found the perfect place to waste time. It’s almost as if it was made for us; your mop of vibrant hair framed by those draping branches, on your side, and on my side, my shoulder sitting just beneath the arching stone bridge (in the distance, people mill over it). From the river we must look regal, picturesque, for on our wall we are timeless and still, silent, like statues.


We both begin to roll a cigarette. My filter sits faintly in-between my lips, puffy and maroon because I am hungover. Also, my hands are cold, so you finish first. Still, you wait. Numb fingers fumble to get a spark out of your garish green lighter. Together, we manage it. People and ducks pass from one place to another, but time does not really pass with them; everything somehow remains the same, in a perpetual state of undisturbed peace. When we’re done (you always finish first), we bury our dead cigarettes in the mosaic of exposed mortar arteries which run through the brickwork. And now it’s finished, so we go home.