'Next Door'
By christy
Between our houses, the grand mimosa wraps in a newly blushed boa, her scent making drunkards of the insects. Soon I will be unable to see the asylum you have named "home". I will not see him wearing darkness thick as a dirty ashtray, his scraped fingers fiddling with keys in the front door. I will not see you stumble behind, glaring through wicked purple from your usual unusual clumsiness. There will only be the tree, the one our children used to climb together before you forgot them, forgot the truth, forgot we were friends before we were just neighbors. Written November 29th, 2001 © on Nov 29 2001 12:38 AM PST 18 • 0 • 10
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"Between our houses, the grand mimosa..."