cinematic solitude

“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

cold night.

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