I stared at the windowsill. I observed the broken, battered wooden frame of the window. A sparkling diamond seemed to shine from it. I pressed it and rubbed it about; a clean spot in the dusty windowsill. So many years of my life and all I had left was this window. This frame. This dust. This glass. This broken wood.
I felt the grooves of wood at my fingertips. I examined it, shifting my empty glance upward. I caught a glimpse at my reflection. The beard stubs mix-matching between pitch black and white. A blink-less stare. A lost expression.
I pushed the window up. I felt a calm, soothing breeze lash against my face. I felt my hair dance in the wind. If only I could feel as it felt. I felt nothing. The wind waltzed. I swallowed.
I stared at the broken frame and gripped it. My hair danced to and fro. If only I could feel as it felt.
I felt the grooves of wood at my fingertips. I examined it, shifting my empty glance upward. I caught a glimpse at my reflection. The beard stubs mix-matching between pitch black and white. A blink-less stare. A lost expression.
I pushed the window up. I felt a calm, soothing breeze lash against my face. I felt my hair dance in the wind. If only I could feel as it felt. I felt nothing. The wind waltzed. I swallowed.
I stared at the broken frame and gripped it. My hair danced to and fro. If only I could feel as it felt.
No comments:
Post a Comment