The Window Box by Tiffany Belle Harper 2015 (archive)

Sat on her window box – a tatty old thing she’d salvaged. Yet now it was beautiful. Covered in some flowery – chintz yellow and green flowered fabric she found in a skip. Of course, she washed it first.

Hugging her knees to bosom, gazing passively out to dew tipped meadow grass, she noticed a deer, then a raven.

Life was splendid that day as she drank Yorkshire tea from a deco fine china cup and saucer.

Then she began to reflect back to her former preoccupation – absorbed by stuff that did not interest her. Yet it was always in the background on those brainless platforms. Narcissistic imprints everywhere it would seem. With dreaded plastic hand sets and web spam.

Trophies, big white teeth, tacky long dresses. A fakeness that turned her stomach.

So she threw fresh soil to ‘that’ trail, then faced the glass pane.

I’ll never stand near pitiful people like you lot again.

Turning to find him right behind her, he softly placed one hand on her shoulder.

She said ‘where have you been?’

‘I was just waiting for you to wake up, hello again sweetheart.’

For they were the same.

Their sensitive hearts inflicted with a dirty mainstream greed they did not seek, but somehow it yearned them.

‘I love you’ she told him, as tears rolled down her face, to his silken palm.

He knelt down beside her, cusping her cheeks to his hands as his thumbs gently wiped the droplets away.

‘Let’s run away, baby…’

‘We have’, she told him. ‘But we just need to make sure we don’t look back … they’re all crazy!’

He laughed,’ they think we are too,

Tiffany Belle Harper.

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