She keeps her eyes cold
While she burns inside
The back of her neck
Tightens with rage
From twenty to one
She counts backward in her mind
To calm her anger
Her heels dig deeper in the ground
Wishing to find some roots
She mumbles to herself
Like grandmother’s lullaby
This is not an
end
This is not an
end
But it doesn’t comfort her much
The bitterness of the coffee
Reminds her of intense sadness
As if each passing moment
Dissolves itself into melancholy
Suddenly the empty cup in her hand
Feels much heavier than before
She keeps it carefully down
Pulls her faithful bag near
And leaves
All she could hear was
“But we can still be friends…”
The walk back to her home
Was perhaps the longest ever…
No comments:
Post a Comment