The Roof
He seconds none in counting the minutes. Like glory passed away in some undiluted rhythm. He tells there's a season of pearls... when the sea won't leave you bereft.
His second wound was minute. Inside, he had found his cozy abode. Outside, where the burn remained, he applied ointment. He tells there's a reason for girls... when they find him to be too stubborn.
After his wounds healed, he kept living under the extension of skin. His cozy abode.
Labels: death, fiction, flash fiction, girls, life, love, pearl, roof, short story, skin, story, surreal, wound