It struck me as odd
The sharp curves on your calf muscle as you stretched, one leg over the other
Skin pock marked with little scars and imperfections, but in colour only not smoothness.
The landmarks of injuries of yesteryear.
But a strength ripples underneath, barely contained by such a thin layer of flesh.
Your fingers stretch, unwavering, reaching, grasping for the cool metal bar.
The veins on your forearm pulse rhythmically, almost in time with the music you are surely bobbing your head to.
And your face, oval yet sharp.
Lips that curve into a fragile smile,
cupped by cheekbones gently trying to hold it all together.
Eyes, downturned, as if forever on the cusp of bursting into tears,
Tears of a sadness that has spent a lifetime being dammed behind your lids,
filling the bags under your eyes.
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