Photo Credit: Go-tea 郭天 Flickr via Compfight cc
The house is at the end of the road. It is just a house, anyone could live here. You wait for me at the door. You seem to be glad that I have come. You offer food, I accept. The bread is stale and you have run out of salt, you say. Never mind, you know I will eat whatever you serve me.
I admired you once. I am willing to pretend that I still do.
You bring me wine. It has a sour taste. I drink it up. I smile.
And in the garden
an apple falls, wings flap.
Then all is silent.
GloPoWriMo 2017, an Early-Bird prompt