Most Lonely Face

Like the oak planks of a ship, his heart was worn and trodden, split and cracked and filled with dust of memories. His soul was the sea, empty and swollen. He would sit in his threadbare chair and feel the air press in. He would sit in his chair and watch the lights outside flicker and dim. He would sit in his chair and wonder why he would cling to nothing and expect it to embrace him back. His heartbreak was his only companion and even then it was unloyal, wavering and shuddering as visions of times past would dance around the room. 

He was abandoned.

The front door of his white cottage was always open, yet the threshold of his home was absent of the presence of others. 

This man would wait: wait for the sight of her, the young lady he once knew. Her long blonde hair pinned back, her black dress falling delicately on to her thighs. His heart would strain at the pictures of how she would react when she saw his changed face, worn with atime; a mere reflection of the handsome face he once wore.

As he sat, the weight of his promise became heavier, and the empty doorway became the haunt of his dreams. 

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