pigeon

Nameless meanders, limp armed over to the window; lined by prim-rose coloured wallpaper, having illustrated on it in white the silhouette of a running horse. His hand; brushes idly along it’s mane, while he steps to and leans on the sill. Outside a hopscotch array of grey mould-tarnish buildings met him. A pigeon scatters past his window, and his shoulders droop a little.

Next door, a coat hook waits for it's routine. A mutt; the ball of snores in an up routed black bassinet; brings with none but moon light; company. Nameless stands, transfixed before the mirror. Water dribbles from his noodling hair, and after worming a route through the ridges of his age eaten features, it comes to settle in a set of five splayed fingers holding a notepad of half written poetry. It's spine cool and worn on his creased palm, eyes pressed upon this scribbled thought:

"I made the promise as a child to love another for eternity, I make the promise as a man to never promise anything."

From a sigh, he draws the book to him. Light, indiscernible mutterings tickle his lip as it's timed page folds, leaving now a p-
ointed hush, describing to his ear the nothingness that birthed it. He listens to it's silent story with the feigned interest of b- atchelors to wives tales, grappling with the infinite ticking of another stale day.