Merv sat in his bed effortlessly. From his lips permanently parted, thick marshmallow wisps drifted out like notes to a consoling song: silent and forgiving, dancing on the soft breeze of the under-used heat vent.
The light persisted through half drawn blinds, the white scored by parallel slats of grays and black. Only, with his back leaning against the cold window, just the top most bars allowed the staccato flits to filter through. There was a charred blunt in the ash-tray and the sunny glow of another as he drew in heavily.
At first the rays lit haze, like a prism that had almost run out of color. But the smoke filled the room, swirling in and out, slowly and persistently folding over the dim corners.
In the darkness, he didn't want to see himself anyway. He didn't want to see baggy hanging eyelids, the melancholy absence of latitude in his stupor. It was too late to cry now. Too late to feel emotion, he decided. His love was falling out of parted lips, like on so many other occasions, but now it left in a requiem fog. It left him feeling emptier, as empty as he felt. As empty as his smokey room.
No comments:
Post a Comment