Room with a view

In my mind I’m in an empty room.

It’s only contents, a folding chair and a bare wooden table which has at it’s center a white postcard.

The chair has been painstakingly restored with wax and wire-wool, it’s surface resonant of honey.

Sunlight warms the floorboards, sliding silently through the bay window. I watch it negotiate it’s way across sill and wall, quiet and peaceful as an opportunist cat.

A good place to think, and to write about passion and creativity, relationships, art, language and therapy.

2 thoughts on “Room with a view

  1. For a time I was a monster.
    The moment I set my lips on tender contraband,
    to the time I let my secret fly was 16 years.
    Of each day of holding and waiting , there was despicable me.
    And the fear of the pain I’d inflict if I told, suffocated.
    So I held and held until I found a crack, seeping through.
    A tiny white light in which I bathed,
    from time to time,
    until I had covered every inch.
    Then one day he said, ‘it’s not as bad as you think’.
    And one day he said, ‘we knew that all along’,
    words that would have healed,
    had I not already mended.

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