Now

The sharp stench of stale coffee in the room’s breath.

I keep seeing the clouds in the air

that I breathe from my mouth,

in this cold room without light

with walls white.

I know I should leave what’s not mine,

to give into the doubts of the time.

But the hope you tried to scrape from my skin persists,

even after I have washed my face with red lava.

And so I sit in this chair,

day after day

watching the world go by through the glass

that does not reflect me.

 

© That Girl in the Fray, 2018.  All rights reserved.

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