On Girlishness

She looks like dark faded denim stitched straight through, with creased leather and belt buckles lacing their way around.

She looks like tea circles left on paper notes, camoflaged in lacy wording above and below the bars and staffs.

She looks like flowers neglected on the window sill, with the morning sunlight flooding into the messy living room.

She looks like a coffee table left out on the porch, paint stripping off and the cat asleep on top of it.

She looks like white bedsheets crumpled on the parquet floor, and mismatched coloured frames on the wall.

She looks like black and white photos of days on the beach, and the Cross of Christ crucified that I've had since I was a boy.

Out.