He wakes upon the couch.
He sees the vacant, unmade bed.
Sunlight infiltrates the dusty French windows.
He doesn't feel the crack of the bathroom tile against his feet anymore.
He no longer hears the birdsong.
YOU ARE READING
When He Stopped Listening
Historia CortaWinner of the 2016 Anti-Watty Awards. his eyes glazed his tea grew cold his calloused hands trembled he gradually stopped listening to me he never came back
