The room was cold where we sat.
The news taking its sweet time to settle in
the silence, like looking out of a spring window
disbelieving the world
could carry on in such absence.
The room was cold where we sat.
Each avoiding each other’s eyes, instead
gazing at the dust cascading in slow motion
in the afternoon light, wondering
what there is to say when someone you love
has become someone you loved.
The room was cold where we sat.
Yet we recalled fondly, hair the color of daisies
a whiff of Chanel No. 5
and all the things I could have said
were like the golden leaves of fall that
crinkled up, faded to dust and scattered on the wind.
The room was cold where we sat.
For a while in silence understanding
warm memories of a flitting crown of butterflies
begging us to remember the loveliness that is
a tired perfume and small white flowers.
Author Bio:
John now lives in Sun Lakes, AZ and has written in western genre for ten years. Born in San Francisco living the first thirty years on the Peninsula before moving to the greater Seattle area. He recently has started a portfolio of flash fiction, poetry and prose. His goal in writing is to share a few his life’s experiences – both good and bad – and challenge younger writers to reach within genres not familiar to them.
The news taking its sweet time to settle in
the silence, like looking out of a spring window
disbelieving the world
could carry on in such absence.
The room was cold where we sat.
Each avoiding each other’s eyes, instead
gazing at the dust cascading in slow motion
in the afternoon light, wondering
what there is to say when someone you love
has become someone you loved.
The room was cold where we sat.
Yet we recalled fondly, hair the color of daisies
a whiff of Chanel No. 5
and all the things I could have said
were like the golden leaves of fall that
crinkled up, faded to dust and scattered on the wind.
The room was cold where we sat.
For a while in silence understanding
warm memories of a flitting crown of butterflies
begging us to remember the loveliness that is
a tired perfume and small white flowers.
Author Bio:
John now lives in Sun Lakes, AZ and has written in western genre for ten years. Born in San Francisco living the first thirty years on the Peninsula before moving to the greater Seattle area. He recently has started a portfolio of flash fiction, poetry and prose. His goal in writing is to share a few his life’s experiences – both good and bad – and challenge younger writers to reach within genres not familiar to them.
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