The anger is what he held. It wasn't the warm days upstate or the quiet nights by the river. Christopher held onto the anger that through years of neglect had managed to slowly twist around his neck to the point where he couldn't tell if it was the anger or the pain of breath that consumed his mind.
Small evergreens lined up against a wall. All the memories could not lead him to sit at the table lined with friends.
Bitter pills sit near the bowl. The time has come to begin fixing what has been broken.
The pencils are in a box beneath the bed. The chalk is clever and content to melt in the rain. Christopher bites down on his sandwich and imagines splitting the hemispheres with his teeth.
No comments:
Post a Comment