Misplaced hope

Faith-shaped hole in my consumer’s heart

I live on the tip-top of a hill. To leave the house is easy. I know it is all downhill. The sun introduces itself each morning through the crack in the carelessly drawn curtains. Its warmth felt on the sheets. A lingering caress that makes it way slowly across my bed. When it slips and lands softly on the floor, I get up.

My days have a rhythm; each unchanged from the one just spent. Evening has passed before I return home. A little of me eroded; a little of the day’s toil on me, encrusted. The hill before me, slowing my step.

To sleep I recall days with you and before the questions become too many I am off.