The hard maple desk had been stained auburn though naked patches now abraded the dye revealing the years of unsung miseries beneath the painter's superficial, fleeting strokes. Drawers that once glided effortlessly were stuck, rusting in their decaying mannerisms. Any attempt to unlock their hidden secrets would be met with the screeching halt of metal on metal. Its surface was covered in light sheets of dust, with a few dried rings from half filled cups of coffee and tiny sporadic washed out pools of spilt ink. These things had been forgotten, but never forgiven. A small, hopeful photo that had faded with age quietly peeked out from inside a folded envelope. The indifferent surface supported them both as though they hadn't broken a young heart. Many midnights were spent comforted by the desk as the memories of pain weaved throughout his verse. They tried to call it poetry but he called it a quiet war, waged between his pen and the woman that he had loved.
- 2015 -