Writing exercises

1. Silence on the phone. Not during conversation but after the shards of voicemail robotics have pierced my eardrums. Her fingers would have dialled again without looking if not for the touchscreen of her phone.

2. She kisses my ear and I see a chromatic vision of her - only yellows and golds and oranges, what happened the night before is mandated to be blue, purple, eggplantish. She likes that it's such a blur. I don't.

3. Just to keep track of the world she buys flowers every week. Orchids that have an odd graphic-looking edge - as if someone vectorised them and pasten them neatly on - because they last more than a week. Why do flowers remind her of some other time? Why is the glass of memory too clear to look at - she can only look through?

4. He bought her perfume again. A variation of the same one she bought two weeks before and found that she was keenly allergic to. 6 different bottles stand, shining with hope that they will be held, caressed, touched, moulded, replaced.

5. Crystal, falling. Liquid crystal. Crystal so hot it flows with an urgency and speed that finds only peace in the small downturned crevice lining her lips. Tongue licks. Always effective to draw them in. Recycle them for tomorrow.