The Man in the Leaves

Outside, the man in the leaves was walking – between cigarettes I’d hear him talking, filtered over the hum of heaters, to someone pretty and equally fleeting. The sky was the bottom that night – my coughing frightened slinking foxes, choking often on my snot and wondering if the porch light across the street that just came on was from the man in the leaves walking past the sensor getting caught or something worse – it always is (it always ends up something worse). The man in the leaves was dropping dust from crushed up little flowers and every single second was a minute was a decade was an hour as I laid upon my bed and heard my heart rush in my ears.

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~ by perfectionatrix on December 18, 2012.

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