This afternoon I went for a walk to this little town and met him. When you come closer to him, his face resembles a grainy photograph. He looks through me, knowing very well. I don’t even listen to him, my mind just wanders. I want to touch him, but I back up. I just look a few seconds too long. And then blink. He doesn’t allow me to regret. He holds me tight and lets me kiss his cheek. His colour is a colour of sand. The last 14 words are reserved for my bitter longing. Languishing, craving, yearning, desirous.
February Fiction (Nine)
February Fiction (Nine)
February Fiction (Nine)
This afternoon I went for a walk to this little town and met him. When you come closer to him, his face resembles a grainy photograph. He looks through me, knowing very well. I don’t even listen to him, my mind just wanders. I want to touch him, but I back up. I just look a few seconds too long. And then blink. He doesn’t allow me to regret. He holds me tight and lets me kiss his cheek. His colour is a colour of sand. The last 14 words are reserved for my bitter longing. Languishing, craving, yearning, desirous.