Eyebrows crinkled into a starburst,
shoulders hunched,
you sit on the wooden chair,
arms holding up your head.
------------
staring.
------------
the look of void.
------------
ringing ears.
------------
your ears ring with regrets.
------------
Sweat from your forehead
slides slowly and steadily-
but you do not feel it.
------------
It falls-
with an audible plop.
------------
The folded piece of snow white paper -
rests on the furniture painted the colour
she professed to hate.
Mahogany.
"It reminds me of blood," she said.
but you insisted it was darker.
------------
With a surgical precision,
you wipe the blot off.
------------
Trembling hands
tear the envelope-
contrasting with the steady ticking
of your wristwatch.
------------
You open it.
You read it.
------------
And there it was.
The light.
And everything else was alright.
YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
