Dior Brown

My right foot hurts.  Not a hurt like its been used and abused, but a hurt like things are working differently now.  My toes used to overlap but not so much anymore.

My body hurts like that too.  Like its become used to being used in so many different ways.  Muscles that lay dormant now find a reason for an ache or a pain.  I can bend myself and look like some strange doll pulled naked from a toy box, contorted by the pressure of too many bodies.

Complex is this feeling we call hurt.  It comes in different forms.  A tinge, a stab, a dull achy pulse.  But then there's more.  There's regret.  I used to feel that, for mistakes made, times past.  But regret is just another kind of hurt.  I wish I could say I regret the way her eyes made me feel.  Her cute giggle, the rouge on her lips.  I'd regret the way her accent curved around my name, but it made me feel good.  The way she said she'd draw me better, and the numbers she gave.  I'd regret them, but she's too beautiful for regret.  The milky Dior brown of her skin, I'd regret it, but she's too beautiful for such an ugly feeling.  Dior brown, what a colour for fashion.