It’s the stubbed out butt of a cigarette. It’s the softening of a come-down, the breaking of a fall — the keeping ourselves busy and all the time alone. It’s the crashing of a wave, the crow of a seagull, the rain against an old, tin roof. It’s the ink across your wrist, the drunken laughter of a crowd, the clinking of glasses at night, and the pressing silence of that one Sunday morning. It’s the way time seemed to move so slowly, back then; dripping rich and golden, like honey from a butter knife.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s