Table all dusty, you can see the shapes in it undeniable fermiliar shapes, a dish, plate and bowls, but still empty, still room for one more shape however,
It was a warm day but yet so cold, the opposite of butterflies in the stomach, bricks perhaps,weight.
Half a bottle of whisky by my seat, the front door gently a cracked was my staring point and destination, house empty just a few things in a box by my chair, one, two,three hours sitting there, not looking for reason but for escape but to disappear, the chear stresses with the sound of old wood as I lift my frame from it, walking slowly from the table, stoping fidling with my finger,
Band laid gently on the table, through the door into the rain, never to look back.
©pollock_75
©pollock75
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