Tap Water Dreams

The death of a dream begins slow. Not slow like the last moment before an accident, when time slugs and the world thins. Not slow like a rainy evening, or a bad movie on a lazy Sunday. Not even like the cautious crawl of a cat, or the queue at the grocery store.

But rather, slow like drops of water leaking from a tightly closed tap.

Drip. Pause. Drip. Pause. Drip.

It is the sound of a scream incurred in the conduits of your chest. It is the sound of a dispossessed heart waiting to wither.

~100 Words~

Micro Tales: Fiction/Prose in a 100 words or less.

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