Open invitation

Her doorstep was always leafless.

(From her little chair by the window she'd watch,
ever intently, as if catching the fall red-handed
would spark a new colour in her seasonal spectrum.)

Her doorknob, a gold-leafed sphere without fingerprints.

(Her silence was a match with the little vase by the window,
but the thoughts that sparkled in her eyes
were louder than the chaos of matchsticks and gasoline.)

At night, she left the door ajar.

(Nose pressed closely against the little glass of the window,
she breathed, allowing dust to dwindle before her eyes.
Sometimes it seemed like winter had finally arrived.)

In the morning, she was an abandoned leaflet.

(The postman never waved to those little hands by the window,
just glanced, and shook off the thought of closing her door,
or telling her about the leaves that had crept onto the floor.)

Her doorstep was always leafless.

28/01/2015
1:07AM