Dancing Shoes

I just wanted you to love me.

There's a bottle of vodka at the top of the shelf, you know it lies in wait for you, when all else has abandoned post. He writes to say the internet is down, there's no trusting life in the bush, and you struggle to find music to cut through the static of your Sunday night blues. Another winter storm warning makes its way across the forecast and you long desperately for spring. Your heart is so frail, these days, you think you can weather anything but time and again you are proven wrong.

I inch slowly closer to the typewriter, pleading for solace, but my fingers stroke the keys too softly and no actual words come out. I wait for it to whisper its secrets, but I fall asleep at its side before the answers become entirely clear.