A candle burns somewhere in the room. A pleading voice weeps somewhere else, ‘don’t leave me’; there are hushed whispers that play along with the untimely monsoon breeze. An unapologetic moon hangs carelessly from the navy sky; its beam being the only company to the candle that burns away with the pleading that goes on. Don’t leave. A bony soft hand tightens its grip on the other hand that is anything but firm, like an elastic, like a tourniquet. Two pairs of brown eyes lock. One pair crimson with yearning, the other impatient to turn away. Stay. Another useless, regretful plead that ends with the sound of another liquor bottle being smashed on the ground. The firm hand traces the fissure on the glass candle stand. A pair of boots walk out the door and it slams against the mahogany frames. Another cry of the shameless need echoes against the corners of the empty room. The candle burns out. Now only the essence of wax lingers as the roaring storm cascades against the broken blades of the window like tears.
Art: Colorscape V, digital, 2018 by backslash_21
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