The eggs bubbled over on the stove forgotten.
Coating the oven in a thin white foaming film.
The pan boiling dry and black.
The acrid stench of burning worked its way in smokey tendrils up my nostrils.
Words spilled out of us both like we were being squeezed from the feet like an old tube of toothpaste.
Crusting on our lips before we could make sense of one another.
Holly silence abandoned in the space between us, as we spat our pain into one another like hot oil.
Eggs forgotten in a desperate thirst of crude raw feeling.
The only semblance of a sunlit morning left to bubble dry upon the stove.
About the Creator
Heidi Gowthorpe
Poet, musician, writer and Lyricist based in the UK.
Sharing little snippets of my secret soul, page by page.
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More stories from Heidi Gowthorpe and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Singer So Shy
She stood near the cold fireplace, watching the second-hand tick down to the hour. In another minute, the clock's bird would emerge and warble the hour. She reached up and touched the clock, tracing the gentle slope of the farmhouse roof, then trailing down the lilac strewn side, to the white fence framed dooryard. She wished she was there, where the air would smell of lilacs rather than smoke.
By Judah LoVato6 days ago in Fiction
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