He spoke of tents
by Ash
· 05/02/2026
Published 05/02/2026 12:43
He spoke of tents,
of rain on canvas, that trip.
'Remember '09?' he said, a flick
of his wrist, like it was yesterday.
And I smiled.
I smiled, but the map inside me
was blank. A smooth, unwritten slate.
Three days, or maybe four,
just gone. Not forgotten, exactly.
Just not there to begin with.
Like someone tore pages from a book,
then sealed it shut again.
No jagged edges, no tears to mend.
Just the clean absence
of what should have been.
And his words, hanging, a strange wind
through an empty house.