Un done

An empty room.

The sky filters in

through smudged glass:

ribbons of yellow and gold.

Flecks of silver dust float

down

down

(I breathe out)

around.

 

The air is warm and

stale

because I am scared to open the window

and let out the scent

of our last conversation.

 

Silent.

The only sound around

is the screech of my damaged nerves

and the thumping of my blood within.

No sound without