Her lips bear tell-tale signs of love and loss,
Mind obscured, fingers hooked around his photo.
Clunky footsteps on the pavement, fumbling
Unseeing eyes trained on the path ahead.
A lost ember, silent breaths on the wind
Anything to show that he has been here.
That his footsteps have walked the narrow paths
That she herself has caressed. He is her.
Tissues, blood, napalm skies flaring inside her.
Her heart so chapped and damaged, that sometimes,
All she can do is just sit there, waiting
On the char-grilled, barbequed pavement.
Hoping he’ll show her the way home later.
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Final Call
She flings her arms around my neck and squeezes me like she’s never going to let me go. My head spins as her lips brush against my cheek. She must be able to feel my heart thumping in my chest. I shuffle backwards and ram my hands into my coat pockets, watching her reach down and heave the rucksack across her shoulders.
By Caroline Cravenabout 7 hours ago in Fiction
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