ophiate
He can’t pinpoint what he has done to upset the man who calls himself his father this time. All he does is to sit on cold stairs, still soaked with the tears from a spring sky, slowly seeping through the fabric of his pair of jeans. The house in his back is the one he’d spent the majority of his monotone childhood in. The days filled with bitter loneliness and grief of heartaches, coming years later. His lips clutch the cigarette, while his pockets don’t contain a lighter. There is a lack of fire, only a cold breeze ruffling up his hair. Azure hues scan the features of people passing by. Five minutes, perhaps another two longer, and he decides for a half-hearted approach;
”’xcuse me -- you have a light?”
