Frequency

Static plays over the radio.

Some days I hum along,

sure the crackle will

morph into a familiar melody.

Most days though,

I am certain I can hear the screams -

of terror,

anguish,

in the white space between.

 -

A door hangs off its hinges

at the Hotel Aster.

Pieces of chandelier crack underfoot,

scattered through the grand ballroom.

It was magnificent once.

But there is no one left to remember.

 -

A birdcage sits empty

longing for its tenant to return home.

I don't have the heart to tell it.

I try to reach for the sweet sound of birdsong,

but I cannot recall the frequency.

 -

My skin prickles as the sun

dips below the mountain peak.

A shadowy mass engulfs the street,

once teeming with life,

now merely the form of a broken memory.

I hold a tin of peaches in my hand.

I hate peaches.

But that is all that is left.

Peaches.

And the constant drawl of static.