Words by Anonymous
A hazy boulevard folds itself across an empty parking lot. The laundrette perches on its hip, carrying toddlers and exhaustion, reverberating coins, and the flitting of socks in a dryer, speckled in patterns and torn in familiarity.
On the jutted pavement, I wait for my laundry to dry, feet planted besides bicycles that are chain-linked to corrugated gating and candy dispensers that topple with faded gumballs.
There’s a chill that sticks to the skin, like plastic clinging to water. I watch on as moths permeate the rippling fabric of the air, flitting towards industrial bulbs that yellow against the itching darkness. And I wonder: did the grazing light entrance the insects,
Or were they afraid to fuse with the infinite oblivion? Or maybe, they were like me and had nothing better to do but wait.
Squinting, these moths transfigure into fireflies, a fractured shine that reflects their misshapen wings. I envy them. They can assume an identity that wasn’t theirs.
I pop rose petals on my tongue and feel them dissolve into a sugary bitterness until the rain comes and I am still waiting for the machines to stop growling against the winding up of lighting and the inevitable cascade of thunder.
An exigency for change.