no one home,
the window
frosted
with your own
breath peering
in. a worn
green couch
in the middle
of the room.
a cup on
the table where
you once had
tea. a shutter
swings from
a single hinge.
a rusted bicycle
in the yard.
how bliss
changes so
quickly into
this. empty
rooms that once
held three.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment