Words

there was not much left. all of the ink on the pages of every letter he ever wrote was gone. or just separated and turned abstract in that flash flood. though neither of them had anticipated a flood on the fifth floor. so. there it is/was/will be.
hanging paper out to dry. on the makeshift clothing line. while the ocean knocks at the windows. and the fire escape. turned to rust. with fish ghosts and snail skeletons. walls sweat salt. broken glass grew out of the floor. and you could hear the room breath.
it smelled like burnt out matches. but really. they were just waiting to drown.