A garden of stories

your whiskey drenched eyes dance across the room, as the cigarette finds a home between your lips, and as you try to find any semblance of home. your fingers trace the rim of the empty glass; going in circles, it soothes you. you sink into an old couch, the one you bought because it matched the colour of their eyes. there’s something about old things that reels you in, you declare, and then sink deeper. your cardigan is tattered now, and the walls behind you, mouldy. a stack of new books lies in front of you. you buy them so you can press old, dried out flowers between their pages. you don’t bother to read a new story, find a new ending, as long as yours is safely stored. you look around and sigh, the walls are high and the roads are broken, but can i let you in on a secret? the flowers outside your window are still blooming, waiting for someone to make a story out of them.