It's a small town, so the cloud hangs over the entirety of it with ease. There's gloom that passes from mouth to mouth, and you'll hear 'did you hear what happened to the mayor's son?' on almost every street.
The mayor's son was young. Young, with eyes like fireflies, eyes that had died too early. Sometimes you would find him with kids almost half his age, despite being only the tender age of nine, speaking to them in low tones and a softness that makes him so much more adoring.
Most of the time, he'd be on the swings. They're rusted, a little torn and scratched, but the mayor's son always took the one on the furthest right, the third one out of three. Anyone would see him swing back and forth, teeth bared in a smile as his imagination flew off.
Now... sits nothing.
The swing where he's always at is empty, seeming to hang lower and lower to the ground. It's there and no one dares to touch it, and the grass that would normally grow around it resides deep into the dirt and doesn't surface.
No one can look at it.
*done off a writing prompt: 'write about the impact a character left behind'.
VOUS LISEZ
everything from the stars to the earth
Poésielittle bits of poetry and writing pieces from my personal tumblr @crowkiiing. warning: may have to do with themes of suicide, self-harm, self-esteem and body issues, lgbt+ thoughts, and other things. temp. cover
