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Chipped Black Nails

Alexandra Lang is a 25 year old performer currently traveling the world, writing about her time around the universe.


I spend half of my life counting time to a rhythm that is not my own.

It’s days like these where I want to drive to see the sun. Watch her burn in an unfamiliar sky. Shake hands with warmer breezes.

Instead I spend most of my time at red lights thinking about the last time we spoke. The way you told me the wind was blowing a bit colder, but I couldn’t feel the chill. I could only offer you a warmer jacket, hold you a little tighter, and focus on your restlessness; your words so still, but hands trembling.

Remember the way our hands would hold? Yours sweet, always sweet. Withered with cracks between your knuckles, a gentle sign pointing towards what I should have known.

Mine? Soft, pale, but not pure; these chipped black nails ever-reaching in your direction.

I can only look back and feel sorry for her, and yes, I am always the her in this story. The girl who didn’t know how to love that boy when time allowed.

Who didn’t know quite how to wrap her body around his, unless under the covers and in the dark.

She didn’t know what it meant to hold someone as if her life, and seemingly his, depended on it.

I still see the way she would mold herself into the existence of whatever human he needed on any given day; contort her bones and skin to fit onto his treasure map.

Once a week she still stays awake with the moon, her ever eclipsing company; At least this astronomical body is consistent with it’s changing.

The way the moon will watch her tosses and turns, her smirk and smoke. How it repeats itself as much as I repeat our stories.

Tonight I saw my fingers with chipped black nails for the first time since holding his hands for the last time.

I wonder where my hands are now reaching as they crave attention for your detail.

Is it still in your direction? What is your direction? Is this too hard? Too fast? Is she always too generous?

© 2022 Xandra Lang

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