The kiln burns and charred paper floats skyward. As the last shred coils into dust, I turn to walk away. It’s pathetic how long they’ve pursued me. I leave them grey ashes and smoldering embers, and they’re always a step late. I can see some fool sifting through it as it crumbles through his open fingers - a maddening frown contorting his face as he wonders how long ago I stood in his steps. Frost grips my coat as I dig hands into pockets and boots into crunching snow, fading into the night and disappearing again like always.
Posted on Wednesday, 11 January 2012
