Acomist
on a hillside desolate
"How do you even know him?"
Cathy sips her tea from her dainty porcelain cup, doe eyes downcast at the oak table. The details hurt your opened eyes but it passes in a fox like ache.
"He was Martin's friend."
That shuts you up and you stare up at the ceiling. Little Martin with his toothy smile and checkered shirts. Befriending the ugly and the broken like some fucking circus manager; you remember never liking him. You saw the way he turned his smile at you like he did at the old grandma he helped across the road and the ex-heroin addict holing up in his house on a detox. You were pity case #365 and you avoided him like the fucking plague.
Too bad Cathy dated him. Too fucking bad.
"That explains so much."
Cathy laughs like she knows how and the tea shakes in her hand.
Cathy sips her tea from her dainty porcelain cup, doe eyes downcast at the oak table. The details hurt your opened eyes but it passes in a fox like ache.
"He was Martin's friend."
That shuts you up and you stare up at the ceiling. Little Martin with his toothy smile and checkered shirts. Befriending the ugly and the broken like some fucking circus manager; you remember never liking him. You saw the way he turned his smile at you like he did at the old grandma he helped across the road and the ex-heroin addict holing up in his house on a detox. You were pity case #365 and you avoided him like the fucking plague.
Too bad Cathy dated him. Too fucking bad.
"That explains so much."
Cathy laughs like she knows how and the tea shakes in her hand.