The sorrow
in the air almost make you laugh inside. How can the taste of despair have the
nerves to calm your pounding heart, when it’s the reason that started the chaos
within?
The trade begins. All around you, objects on display that were once priced possessions, now shuddering and begging to be thrown away.
There’s no remorse here, just a
trade that needs to happen for things to be bought and sold, for hearts to be
broken and mend.
You don’t understand how a trade can go on in dead silence. You hear the shouting and shrieking next door, and the one two stores down.
What a show, what a commotion. You wonder
why hadn’t your business have that much drama and hype.
Something in you remembered a time when your trades are the best in town.
Parties that chimed through the rainforests like a call of spring, nights that stretched through the face of a Cheshire cat from end to end.
You grin at your
imagination, surprised at how cunning you are to steal the life of a party
pixie in your head.
Is it too
late to sing a rock score? Is it too late to pour another more?
Let’s sing a rock score.
Let’s fight for a toast, wishing away the best of the world to fall into everyone’s home.
There’s always more to give at this trade, in fact, there’s too much to give.
And yet, your shelves are swept clean and complaint sheets
are scattered like colored confetti on your floors.
The lights are off.
And your order is up.