I imagine you’re sitting there. Listening intently. Hanging onto every word until the next one comes along. There are bottles on the counter and nobody cares what time it is.
A mist of existential reconciliation permeates the room and that ****** candle just will not die. Your eyes are doing that thing again. Where the spirit of the one caught by them, longs to throw itself to their mercy.
You’re going to smile and the room might as well fold in on itself because nothing else will matter at that moment. The moon tries so hard to get a glimpse but the blinds are pulled.
And I, the wretched Hop Frog (it’s a Poe reference), clawing away at my chest from another world away. Desperately trying to get at my heart, if for no other reason than to prove that it’s there.