Lost, not found.



An abandoned house in a pool of red dust.

 A word tree is bleeding. It's head poking through one of the windows at the front.  Sweet vowels of fruit dangle from it's branches, they will soon start to rot.  My boy is hungry, so I pick them and lay them on our tongues.

 I feed him whole stories from it, so that his little belly may swell with imagination. I let him hang upside down from a gnarly branch, scraping his knee on the bark. His hair dangles in threads like a black willow searching for water.

I watch him run in the dust, brown feet spinning clouds of red.

I take him into the house and lay him on the green moss ceiling and tell him I am sorry.

 "Sorry for what?" He asks.


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