we met again, at a
diner by my request.
it was a small,
ugly place.
but you liked it. and
that made me like it.
words slipped between
us, as we drank our bitter
drinks. you mentioned the
word "freesia" and touched
the topic
of art.
I sat in silent pleasure,
content, listening to
your voice.
because as our friendship
bloomed, your interior
died.
YOU ARE READING
Faded Colours
PoetryVeronica has no reason for her sadness, and that only makes her sadder.
