I see him unpacking everything through the window looking into the early morning. Even when it's sunny and bright out there it's cold here in this seemly empty house. I told him don't touch his things that it isn't right trying to forget like he didn't exist. I heard the scaping of garage door opening and the rustling of items being put to sell some old, forgotten about and things never used. Tearing myself away from the window taking a seat onto my mothers old rocking chair she gave me. Looking up, I see one of the pictures I haven’t taken down yet. It is my mother rocking me to sleep in this same relic.
YOU ARE READING
Collection of my writing
PoetryHi there. This book is a collection of pieces I have written and been wanting to post them. Some are short stories and others from a scenes that were in my head and small pieces of poetry. ( what I think is poetry) Hope you enjoy!
