#179 At the End

At the end of the day, he thought, the sun sets, the moon rises, the flowers tighten their petals like delicate nooses around their own sumptuous beauty. The air will cool as an electric eye dims and cools once the power has been turned off. His power had been turned off—flipped like a switch. Did love fade like a stove eye or was it more like the brittle fracture of glass on a bare floor? Every evening holds in itself the promise of morning. But what about him, his promise, his love? Where was that? Where would it be?

—2010-08-20 07:35:22