photo by Dominik Martin

The last time I saw him a halo of cigarette smoke curled, a thick haze hovering around his face while Snow Patrol’s Set Fire to the Third Bar played, aching.

An anthem of foresight for every town and every state I drive through takes me farther from him, farther into lonely cold, and silence swallows every thought except the apology I couldn’t say.

The thousandth mile rises on the odometer and the tires throb on the bascule bridge as “sorry” falls like an anchor into the muddy river below.

end 11/5/2016

S. Darlington

Three Line Tales, Week Forty