What is there to forgive?
The sun shines, and the rain falls, and then there's the harmattan, but we call them seasons.
They come and go.
They owe us no apology. We owe them no forgiveness.
The deed is done.
We move.
YOU ARE READING
Bedroom Whispers
Non-FictionThe bedroom holds sacred territory for me. The bed, its altar. One upon which I've offered sacrifices, so many to count and recall. One upon which I currently lay as I once more pay my dues, in taps and clicks. I miss the days when the gods were co...
