The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.


25. Dull

The fire’s glow lit our faces, but couldn’t warm our souls.

I was cold from the inside out, and the fire failed to burn my insides.

Two minutes later, I found myself grabbing my lighter and lighting a cigarette; you did the same.

There we sat in the parlour of your house, smoking cigarettes that warmed our insides.

The brisk October air leaked in through the window and blew out what was left of the fire.

We sat in the dark, still puffing smoke in and out of our lungs until you spoke.

“What am I?” you said.

Your words poisoned my mouth, more so than the cigarette had.

I let thoughts roll around on my tongue before I spoke.

“You’re mine,” is what came out eventually, and all that wistful thinking was wasted.

You turned to face me on the cushion you were sitting on, moonlight pouring in on your face.

I shivered abruptly because I was scared my words were not enough.

There was suddenly a glimmer of hope in your eyes.

We sat there in the comfort of our own silence, doing nothing but existing.

Suddenly, you lifted the lighter toward your face and lit another cigarette.

I watched as you made smoking look graceful; the foggy air drifting away from and out of the moon’s light, never to be seen again.

The look in your eyes was nothing but dull; like a stained glass window, because I could not see through.


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