No. 5

This hollow, golden morning you sit under sunrays beaming through dancing particles in the air; slow motion. The old table under rested elbows splinters as your coffee tips back to kiss dry lips. Inhale and exhale, its steam flushes cheeks and gold air rises to the sound of wind chimes just on the other side of worn windowpanes. You notice a crack in the silver of a mirror on the wall, surely dawning a new perspective from its original state. These are all remnants of someone else’s haunting; all memories you have written yourself a part in.