Jan 3, 2020
Self(ish/less)
7 years ago, February.
Its monotone lyrics float over the dense air of wine, smoke and tears: close to the ceiling, to the high windows. Where it can view the upper world from, without seeing the chaos below.
“The number you have dialed does not exist.”
She sits backs in her rocking chair. In the middle of a decaying room, she watches his ghost. He’s perched on the cracked window sill, watching the world below; a world he knows well.
She raises the phone to her ear and speaks like he’s on the other side.
“It hurts like living. Every time this happens.” The ghost moves; to blow out the smoke in its chest. “And I don’t get the pleasure of dying like you do.”
