The room brightens quietly, and the world outside
wakes up. Her eyes are clamped against the glow from the window. She thinks
about the past days and years and tries to draw a line from each to each and
connect how it all went wrong. Maybe this diorama will clear things up. All the
wreckage and the waste.
She doesn’t check her phone because the absence of
his calls hurts more than the pleasure derived if he had tried in the night.
The cat crept out in the small hours and the morning finds her alone. For years
she occupied three quarters of mattress, now she sleeps on his sliver.
Wool sox, sweatpants and a big pink blanket, she dares not stir. She is
letting settle the dust from a trampled life. Pretending death before moving a
muscle. The coast is clearing, and she is waiting the color of day.
No comments:
Post a Comment