Saturday, July 24, 2010

Red hair with a curl...

At the back of his mind, he remember it all, like cobbled stones on a familiar path. The red hair was always everywhere. When she left, he would clean. He's pick all the silken strands off his bed, then get on his knees and pick them off the floor and put them all in a little box by the window. He remembers the little freckles she had on her thighs and the way her mouth would curl when he told a lie. Now he stands at the window, watching them falling fast to the street like feathers too tired to fly away. She will be coming back. But he doesn't know that yet.

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