Not entirely sure if this was prose or not, to be honest. An attempt at something descriptive. The first since I graduated. So dates this around the middle of October.
Sleepy – eyelids heavy and pupils tight.
Wrapped up in someone else’s sheets it is still cold.
Steady rush of rain outside, the trickle of water over-running the gutter and the occasional tap-splatter of droplets against the glass.
The trickle is cool and irregular, I imagine water plummeting from roof top to paved garden, little bubbles which spin and twist in the air before ending.
I am hiding. Reading a book which changes the way I act, drifting into sleep. Unsure of the time and if anyone else knows I am here, I try not to drift for too long. However, it has been too long for me to reveal myself now.
The dresser is wedged open by the pulled-out fourth drawer and within it wicker boxes of small items lie in careless disarray. On the bookshelf three condoms sit conspicuous silver, beside a keyring with no keys and an old packet of chewing gum. For me, who is not the owner, these things are just relics. Not belongings, not possessions, ‘his’ with meaning attached.