I’m sitting on a city bench, running on empty. Whatever vividness used to live here has just. Burned out. That space of empty space. Lost in something I have lost. It’s a feeling not like ice, but ash asking, “Where do I go from here?”
And then staring at the ground beneath my feet. Losing myself in the monotonous sameness of the pavement. Wishing that I could have. Wondering where I’m supposed to be. & then speaking the only other question on my mind:
“Do you know how long this train is supposed to take?” I ask, talking to the breeze.
Writing and photography by Hazel J. Hall.
Previously published by Microfiction Monday Magazine.
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