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| Open Poetry #45 |
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Full Circle |
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Tomer Senior Member
since 2002-06-28
Posts 1168Michigan |
It was a cold night in the heat of August. His hand slowly faded from hers, falling flat faced with his clenching fist around his chest, holding it like the glass of scotch he drank on each evenings tilt. His breaths became fainter and fainter, as she scrambled to the telephone sitting on the kitchen wall. He lay in the living room den; as she sat by him, patting his face with a cold washcloth. Silence filled the room, much as it did every evening, but his was forced and hers was frozen, as the sirens approached their driveway. She remembered how they met; his long stare and her fresh lips, with a silence that fasted itself into an endless conversation that carried over until this fateful, August night. |
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| © Copyright 2009 Tomer Fried - All Rights Reserved | |||
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GBride Senior Member
since 2009-07-02
Posts 538 |
Sounds like part of a longer story. I wonder if he lives, or dies. |
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AncientHippie Member
since 2009-10-15
Posts 411Surfing the Cosmic Flow |
Great stuff, Tomer. You set a heavy pace from the git/go and relentlessly drag us to the dark conclusion. Well done, and much enjoyed. Jim Sutra 25: Remember that a pile of ordure is simply that: Seek not to give it meaning. |
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Tomer Senior Member
since 2002-06-28
Posts 1168Michigan |
Appreciate the comments, take care. Cheers Tomer |
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