Burnt

It begins with dust. A constant haze. A habitual smooth breathing. Potholes too. Then the words come. Disguised. They rain like arrows, piercing everything in their path. The wait begins. Then the agony. The hope and the emptiness. Then the turning away. And more dust. Finally some stiffening. Some looseness. Then all's forgotten.

And of course it's the minor chords. All of them. they trample over the song. They make the song. Silence hits after a low pitched note. Only then. Is it friday today?