Providence 1

Debris crackles underfoot, diffused light falls lazily upon a kicked in television screen. Like a large patio, air flows freely through the grand rooms and out the shattered windows. Spray paint sticks to the walls menacingly, evoking curiosity, like an aged tattoo. Vague footprints lie about carelessly, difficult to discern. It is frightening at first, but that fades to sadness. Stale nostalgia lies like a sheet of cellophane over all surfaces.





The silence is thick. It rises to tumult when nothing moves, when the only whisper is from quiet inhales and exhales.



At night, the memories can lie comfortably: no one can see them. But in the fading sunlight, they are exposed. They scurry and hide amongst a shoe here, a record player over by the stairs. Here is one wallowing in the tip of a needle on the kitchen counter. Sometimes they sneak over across the room to meet each other, and they can be seen, a milky sheen in the yellow light.



Broken and burnt and alone and sad and cracked and desolate and rusted and peeled and bent. Forgotten.