Photo by Tj Holowaychuk on Unsplash

The house is lived in, yet undulates in an emptiness. It is a charade, a mirage in which the clear, pristine waters that begged to live within my veins turned out to be nothing more than an ardent, blazing disregard. To my left, the sun is yawning, beating its throat against the thin plastered walls of the kitchen. Even the light seems dreary — the fresh, new photons strike this lonely place and fade from the luster that their womb bestowed. A pristine lushness…