My! Did I write that?

A droubble by chant_z

The phone rang not knowing it was invented. Somebody answered not knowing how to; it just happened; like it happens every time. Time the avenger.

Sometimes it disturbed him and sometimes it didn't. On the former occasions it was like it was perturbed in him; a feeling he couldn't deflate; he could only relate to briefer moments making the aching worse. How he longed for one ... a single one ... phone call. It may be from a moth to a flame if it wasn't for the sad fact that the moth was a mother. Bloody Freudian manners; put all the blame on her. Not an ordinary man; just some vin ordinaire. She was in love with him; I was in love with her; hence the phone didn't really ring.

So it happens every time and every time (well almost) there is an implicit deceit in the airy ways of the phone; like looking at the back of the moon and discovering it's all tapestry. Anyway, anyhow it was never she or her; it that was left for him in his little and belittled life (or so it seemed) was the carpenter's smile on the wall like if a moth.

Published on 02/09/15