Six sips and here I sit beneath the firmament. This hour of day mourns as if retracing my steps, school bus yellows and the sky’s gradation into boardroom blues with a filter of grey. There’s texture in the trees, a certain weight to the scene, mimicking the heft of my sodden soul.
A canvas of silence as I sip to forget.
They say time heals all, though, I’m not sure who they are. Or if they’ve ever experienced a life of rejection. Day after day, leaving only rote remnants that nearly tuck you closer into the depths of a long season’s decay.
To the onlooker, I’d be part of this vignette, this art of life. I’d be another pretty shame. Colors and brushstrokes to ooh and ah as intangible as the setting scene before me.
All the words he spoke and nothing ever said. I’ve one last sip ready for my lips before night settles in, and all begins again.
© Grace Black
Written for Flash! Friday Micro Fiction Contest