The gravel crumbled underfoot, leaving a stony imprint on the Earth.
The sun gleamed, ascending its rays down to the walked upon path.
My jeans, dirt covered. Simple.
My shirt, wrinkled, I’d forgotten to iron it.
The hotness left it’s maroon imprint on my shoulders, a sunset across my face.
I felt each step crack, the gravel snapping down.
The swelter began to leave my head damp, as if tears were escaping my pores.
I looked at the metal box. 2005 Hyundai.
I looked at the brick wall, the windows tinted as the flower curtain flitted through.
The porch was old, gossamer cobwebs had began to sleep in its corners.
The front door creaked softly, nobody is home.
I stare at the house, the sun glowing brightly.

She left me, and now I occupy this prison alone.