Bare

Aren’t photoframes strange ?
Or is it the pictures they hold ?

It’s almost unfair, the wistfulness of it all.

That one moment when everything was perfect, when the sun hit his face just right, when all the colours of fall were in bloom just enough and the wind blew your hair out as if you were in a movie. It’s not fair to hang up that one picture-perfect moment in your living room and watch it gather dust, day after day.

Because the truth is that we’re not in a movie, and the leaves of autumn turn brown faster than we realize.

Sooner or later, the cracks spread deep and far. And then one day, after the eye of the storm has passed, you’re left alone in a broken home.

Your clothes are stuffed in cardboard boxes all over the apartment and you’re on your knees, tears staining your cheeks as you cry for what used to be. And you spend the night on the kitchen floor because you just can’t bring yourself to take the pictures down, scared that the bare walls might just be little more than what you can bear to see.

3 thoughts on “Bare

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