I stayed inside, mostly.
The sun steepled it’s light across the livingroom like sorry stalagtites hanging from my ceiling.
The temporary morning suspended in optimism towards it’s annual atrophy.
How fleeting are the tides of all we’ve known.
Sanctuaries built on bruised foundations.
Groundless hope.
“My life is nothing but room for you.” I said. “It could never be filled by anyone but you.” - Vonnegut
`
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong, ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’
`I studied a face I hadn’t seen in months and started a rough draft. It didn’t start ugly, it started as most faces do. The outline unremarkable.
Affectionately I etched in your sunken cheeks, but the skin stretched over your jawline became lacerated and tinged a pale pink. Your smile became an open wound. I tried picking the lies from your teeth as if they were devil’s food. I closed the lips over your mouth; I still pretend I never knew.
I liked you better when you told the truth.
