A pure white hair-band lying on the floor. In front of the drawn curtains.
The roller chair, abandoned between the room.
Flowers knocked over from the glass vase. The vase, amazingly, unbroken.
The laptop lying on its side with its charging cord dangling from the side.
The book, the page you were reading preserved so preciously till now, on its face on the floor near the bed.
The Ipod speakers blaring an instrumental track you normally always skipped over.
Pillows on the floor and the bedspread crumpled. Bruises on your legs, your calves and your neck.
Going to Imaginary Places..
1 comment:
You write like a freind of mine.
this post, specifically.
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