He turned around in the doorway and let his eyes sweep over it one last time before leaving. Now empty once more the room looked just like it had done all those years ago when they had stood together, right where he stood now, to see it for the first time.
He remembered how young they had been, how irrepressibly in love, how filled to the brim with hopes and dreams. Some were now teasingly close to coming true, some had been crushed under the relentless boot heels of consequence and coincidence, and some remained as dreams, unchanged. Those now cold and naked walls, who had witnessed it all, would not spill a word of their wisdom to anyone.
Looking around, he tried to find a sign, just any sign, that they had ever been there at all. He found the permanent stain, left where they had spilt something boiling on the wooden floor, and he saw a dried red rose petal, dancing enchantingly back and forth across the room, following the gusts of wind coming in through the open window.
YOU ARE READING
An old Jigsaw
PoetryA collection of poetry and flash fiction about the millennial experience of growing up in this world of ours, of trying to find your place and that feeling of wanting to stay in the moment while at the same time being in a rush to get on with the re...
