story

drawing in

A light on my bike, steers through the darkness. Pedals turn as I leave you behind. Winter drawing in now, the shadows breathe a little deeper. Air grips tight around me. A compress on my chest, crushes as I cry.

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Cutting floor

Envelopes. Paper. Painted with letters, woven with words. I sit. Scissors in hand. Feel their weight. The solid steel. Lift the first letter from the pile. Place the blades gently around it. Slowly squeeze the handles. Smile at the satisfying snip and slice of cutting paper. That crisp crunch of the blades biting. A metal smile hiding teeth within. 

With my eyes closed

Night walking. Head hazy. The streets warped like an Escher picture.  Yet my routefinder kicks in. My feet walk a path they’ve walked too many times before. 

Third lamppost on the left, take the snicket Dark and narrow I snag on brambles falling free, skin torn, stinging. Head for the light, the other side. Stumble on loose paving stones down the steps to arrive on your street. 

Quiet. Calm. Unchanged.

I sit on the pavement. Hug my knees tight. Here again.