“Sometimes we get sad about things and we don’t like to tell other people that we are sad about them. We like to keep it a secret.
Or sometimes, we are sad but we really don’t know why we are sad, so we say we aren’t sad but we really are.” ― Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
a cracked cone – strawberry ice cream bleeds onto white carpet.
the storm won’t wash these stains away, never.
the hands that wipe these tears away, are aimless.
procrastinating via poetry in these veins
it spouts in random popcorn bursts and candy striped solitude,
as she sits in this constructed cavern, shadows like old friends,
company, a muted memory,
silence – a shroud capturing her bated breath
as she stares at the flickering film
mouths moving, never speaking
steam – silhouetted against the silver screen
arises from the coffee in her cheap paper cup
it rises and falls
moulded by her breath
before dissipating, traceless
the epitome of transience
the sole source of warmth
fails to warm her soul
please – give her a chance
to bloom, on this cold