I was parked on the 3rd level but I kept climbing, breathing my way to the 5th. The door was a grimier version of what I remember. You’re parking spot is taken by a Range Rover. Black. Spotless.
Somehow, I think you’d hate that it wasn’t an old Bronco or something vintage cool––or maybe it’s me whose pissed at the imported flash of it. I think about scratching the sides but chicken out.
Instead, I rub my sweaty palms all over the windows, smearing my loneliness on the glass. I try and leave it there, but it follows me like old mail that shows up in the box no matter where you move.
once upon a time...
2 Replies to “Level 5”
Sorta like, wherever you go there you are.
There’s no leaving behind that which we create from within.
That’s exactly it Tony. It follows us no matter how hard we run.
Word of the Year-2025
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Hinterland is Real
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Deadly Mist
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