[46] - Weight
The boy sat alone
In the seat of his car
His head in his hands
With water running down the
Rolled down windows of the car
Just as it ran down
His crimson tinted cheeks.
His chest felt heavy
Like there was weight sitting on top
Of his compressed lungs.
His voice was raspy
And choked
As he struggled to breathe.
He reached for another
Calming cigarette
But stopped mid-way.
It was the silent killer
That corrupted his lungs
It hurt to inhale
And the exhale was
No better.
He wanted freedom
From the girl
And her judgmental advice
He has wanted to slowly
Disappear
To burn out his lungs
To burn out himself.
But as he clutched his
Heaving chest
He knew he couldn't die.
He knew he wouldn't
Without apologizing
Setting things right
With her.
She wasn't only a stranger
And the boy wanted nothing more than
For her
To care too much again.
YOU ARE READING
Pluviophile
PoetryIt was a rainy day, in New York no less. One held a cup of coffee, wishing for the rain to stop. One held a hand full of old books, savouring the moment. short story #98 poetry #51
