Not much to be said now, anyway.
There’s no food on the table
I left the Television on and my cat’s dead,
and I can hear a cop’s radio somewhere
in the distance, I think.
I can see my reflection in the doorknob,
polished silver, and it looks small
and far away.
My shirt smells of spilt coffee and
the taste of last night is still on my tongue,
even though the sun is high now
and peeks through the blinds in thin strips
of yellow and blinding white.
There’s not much to be said now, anyway.
Someone spilt soda on the couch
and the dishwasher is broken and makes this
strange clicking noise, every once in a while.
I can see my reflection in the doorknob
but she doesn’t see me; lost somewhere
in all the negative space.
Cass Parong is from San Clemente, California, currently attending Orange County School of the Arts, and is in the Creative Writing conservatory. She is published in zines such as Endless Urbia, Grinds, and Fever Dream.
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