Rhythm, Zayn would
make music- that would be his ticket out the cousin Harlem- Bradford;
the ghettos.
He touches his fresh haircut, he's shit at writing songs- stiff, words like an ironed coat jacket; bland.
With a huff to his labor he resides his pen, taking a swig of something Lou brewed up; his ears tingling with the sound of sex from the room besides him.
Harry n' Louis; Bradford, they belonged here- they needed to take care of one another. Zayn on the other hand, he had no one- no one like that, like Harry hand Lou.
He lays on a torn couch cushion, the sounds of rattling rats and rivets piling up in his memory as he arches his back.
"I,,, need,,, some-body to,,, love,,, me,,," he sings, but stops- hears the sounds of the cousin Harlem around him, listens to Bradford- hears the broken English and the penniless pocket handkerchief- hears the cries from the scorching sun and powered lemonade junkies; he stops and listens, his words flowing from the sadness that resides in him:
",,,blue."
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-Cristina Xx
