Orange, Green, Yellow, Blue

I won’t give you a call when I get back into town. I will cover up the tracks that lead to my doorstep, pull blinds across the apartment windows, make myself naïvely unobvious and certainly inaccessible. The phone will ring until its final chime, a stiff sounding lady will interject and you’ll hang up. You might try your hand at it again later or in a few days, but I will win and you will give up. The hours will slip, the days will slide, and the weeks will fade. Locks will freeze up, snow will fill in the stairwell and ice will blanket and stain glass panes. In the glow of sunlight filtered through shattered patterns and irregular shapes I will wait, wait for you to break your word and call again.