Photograph #3

[thejunipertree]

Here we sit, at the kitchen table again. She's got her tiny little feet propped up on a tackle box and I've got my own tucked underneath my body. The chairs we sit in are not conducive to sitting comfortably, though neither of us adjust ourselves very much.

She has multiple piles of brilliantly coloured beads scattered in front of her and is sorting them out into other little piles by colour and shape and size.

Out of boredom and a tremendous attraction to the different shining colours, I move a pile over to my own edge of the table and begin to sort my own sections. Head bent, purple hair falling in thick eggplant sheaves over my shoulders. I slide the beads under my fingers, memorising the slick sensation and the light winging from the facets into my eyes.

I sing under my breath, to myself and quiet-like: "I don't love anyone..."

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