The rain drips. His comfort against the world. Few pass his window. Few venture out to see him. The sunshine brings obligations. Here, concealed by water, he finds peace.
But there is a hollowness to it. The honeyed candles remind him of her. He lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling. He would trace the shapes of things he sees in the bobbled paint, but he cannot share those imaginings with her. So what is the point?
While she is gone, each moment exists without a full stop. Each sentence bleeds into the next. He is waiting for that sudden sharpness. That punch, that she brings. And he worries the hours away hoping she feels the same.
Paddy Dobson
17th August 2021