The Apartment

It feels like it was only yesterday when you first walked through the door.

Yes, it did feel like you had been here before.

But, do you remember the first words you uttered, when you saw what was in front of you?

No, of course you don’t.

But you can rest assured that your screams still linger deep within its damp ridden walls.

There were no curtains were there?

No, that’s right. Nothing to hide your poor eyes from the brightness of that unnatural view outside, nor the strange and unsetlling emptiness of this one inside.

Yes, of course, over time, you did do it up with much attention and with great love and transformed its empty space into what you called a home. ‘Good times’, you once liked to call them, filled with joy but sometimes tears.

But they didn’t last did they?

No, they never do.

Soon, all you could make out through the gloom of those late Autumn afternoons, was the fading brightness of its colours and the distant glimmer of those dust covered photographs of familiar figures that you would never see again.

Exhausted by its upkeep, there was nothing else you could do, but lie down and give into the silence of its’ emptiness, while the cracks grew and spread all around you.

Now, all you can hear are the echoes, echoes of this space in which you never really were.


J.H. Martin

About J.H. Martin

J. H. Martin is from London, England but has no fixed abode. His prose and poetry have appeared in a number of places in Asia, Australia, the UK and the USA. For more information, please visit:
Bookmark the permalink.

Comments are closed.