Cigerette in the night
Sitting on the drab lonely, drippy steps of Charing cross station, sharing a smoke with a shivering boyfirend.
This Saturday night is a commune for the drunken rejects of the world, and this time, we're not the drunkest; we do not smell the worst. Misplaced, shivering foreigns don't even look —a few ask direction. We spreading our shivering ,wore down limbs alll other the sold floor, passing the times watching stumbling people fight with their luggage.
Then she appeared! She dragged herself across the plateform with the final of her willpower. Her red sweatpants are patch ups , and her feet are cramed into city stained pilsoles. If I had not known betterI could have swared she was a ghost.. Her large coat seemed to be full of all of her worldly possions.. Her eyes look like they've seen so much sadness they're forever doomed to apathy.. I looked at those glass eyes and thinking she reeks of survival ; that I really didn't have anything to complain about , and all I have to worry about is waiting for the train to start up again.
She produced her trembling, wrinkled mit.
We look through our pockets but their is nothing.
The darkeness of the city engrossed her descending, dejected shape.
I spend soem time searching for mches. Eveythign seems to be in slow motion, the world seems to be waiting.. The second seem to drag on , forever we coul dnot see the end.
Then for seemly no reason the old lady returns. Her wrinkled hand, tired of pleading, is now answering.
She placed two fifty pence pieces into my palm and said, " get yourself a cup of tea. Chin up your be home soon."