Apokalypsi

Prose

Photo by Crawford Jolly on Unsplash

The window is open briefly; as brief as childhood — — gone before you grow tired of it…, preoccupied with work and debt and other distractions

Mornings were rooms full of mourning, eroding pillow over lungs — - failed attempts to stop their routine

Fingers dipped in watermarks, the breakfast bar stained with the aroma of foul play — —