Typed Music


I suppose these are just little pieces of me, wrapped up in words.

The forgotten melodies of my mind.


90. Our Trainers

Once upon a time we had our names inked into our trainers for us. They’d be as transient as our ownership of them, Mum’s good intentions would bleed themselves out in the way that a sweat-rubbed biro will. Insisting on weeping its way fainter until only ghosted lettering lingered to mark our territory.

No matter.

The trainers are still on the balcony. Unforgettably present, unforgettably his. Because the shrines we build for our dead people take on a durability that their gods failed to achieve. Immortal by the symbolism we’ve laced them to.


The way that reverence has leaked between his imprint and his reality. Because he’d never have left his trainers so tidy – so agonisingly static – but they plant themselves there all the same as though they too wish that they could have kept him grounded. In their consideredness, they do not quite avoid lying about the boy whose name is slowly being erased from inside the heel.

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