We wait by the empty flower pots
near the closed door where he used to leave sandwiches
that were missing their edges. Like volcanic ashes, voices from
the other room, where his mom likes to pray, spread
then hardens when touched by tears. “We used to be in love,”
a whisper beckoned from around the corner, near the
antique vase with scars left over from
the other day. Glass tears encompass the canvas skin of a man who stands
at the door with nothing on the other side. “Love,” he said
heaving, possessing a tongue salivating
with bad intentions, “it’s easy to chase but not to hold.”
You live with empty spaces,
and they look full from afar—pots, doors and the room behind it,
sandwiches,
love. It’s something to chase
with wine or vodka, not with legs that
fall from cramped muscles and creaking bones of
a wounded ankle. But the man at the door turned to me,
his arms open like Christ the Redeemer, and
flowers grew from the empty bowels of
the cracked vase.
As always, thank you for reading :)
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About the Creator
Bella Leon
Welcome to my digital diary!
I have a vast but useless knowledge of cinema, and I just love to write.
You can expect to find random articles regarding various subjects, poetry, short stories, and anything film related. Happy reading <3
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