It’s 4 AM on Monday morning when the traffic outside my window hums to life. And somewhere in my building a toilet is flushed, and running water spills through pipes behind a wall.
I sit staring at the four clichéd lines in my notebook, that suddenly become squished inside a crumpled ball of paper thrown on my bedroom floor. I pinch my eyes tight to get hold of any reasons that might be there - reasons for the emptiness that has suddenly opened up between us, reasons for the coldness, the hunger - but find none. And still,
I sit staring at the four clichéd lines in my notebook, that suddenly become squished inside a crumpled ball of paper thrown on my bedroom floor. I pinch my eyes tight to get hold of any reasons that might be there - reasons for the emptiness that has suddenly opened up between us, reasons for the coldness, the hunger - but find none. And still,
the lines I send out spoil the words that return -
his carefully chosen words, that drip without emotion over staggered lips and fall like pulp from his thoughts of me squeezed through cyber space. He stares blankly, as the lines he wanted to say lie squished inside a crumpled ball of paper on his bedroom floor.
his carefully chosen words, that drip without emotion over staggered lips and fall like pulp from his thoughts of me squeezed through cyber space. He stares blankly, as the lines he wanted to say lie squished inside a crumpled ball of paper on his bedroom floor.
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