Jaw framed by clenched fists, knuckles white like bare bones

Eyes wondering on the window, a landscape of washed out people

Hurrying back home, to warm arms and hot cups of tea

His brain like hot lava, wondering why he did not leave, 

When the leaving was good, when sun was slowly sinking 

In his bed of roses, when things were not said, when consequences

Still mattered.

Image @ unsplash

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