This morning was a premature phonecall of awakening and love that has lived a grand life, finally willing to age.
This morning was waking up to habits and the semblance of happiness.
This morning was a walk down the hall of frames and realised ambitions that will no longer be spoken of.
This morning was a scalding cup of serendipity and words misconstrued.
This morning was silence wailing on both sides of a broken French window, glass shards don’t mend like they used to.
This morning was the shuffle of footsteps and the premonition of something cold and new.