Evening draws in,
the half-moon observes
your passage home.
Hours drip by heavy,
oil falling in water.
Unmixed, always a separate entity
to those wandering past.
Cigarette butts on the ground
avoiding the traps especially set
on waste bins.
The smell of energy drinks
left on the bus two seats down
marring the truest scent
of night.
Door unlocked, house is silent.
Signs of life everywhere
that need to be tidied before morning.
Before mourning.
Of what might have been.
Not of what is.
The aftertaste of what is
is natural,
no added sugar.
Treeshallow Musings 