Memories of a humid summer, dripping with love, when you finished your book.

In the night red wax trickles over a torn page that says, “for you- whose love fills my life with joy and makes all things possible.”

My arms ache.

I try to pull you back from a memory abyss filled with pain.

Can I still make all things possible?

The walls stay silent.

 

@short-prose-fiction