a little girl sobs
in the back booth of
a badly lit diner.
"sssh," soothes her mother,
running her fingers through
the girl's hair, down her back.
it is night and snow falls
silently outside, through
yellow pools of street lamp light.
the girl takes shaking breaths,
curled against the wall of peeling paint
from decades long past.
it's just another night
in a diner in the middle of nowhere;
just another set of people passing through.
this is a place where time itself
isn't quite real, and where reality
quivers beneath the flickering lights.
YOU ARE READING
a last note from your narrator
Poetrypeople write because no one listens - h.h. a collection of short stories written in various points in my life. mostly bad points. fair warning. title from the book thief by markus zusak i...
