The Friday Chalk-Line
A silver plane threads the blue, unspooling a ribbon of salt-white silk that hangs, breathless, against the vast and hollow ache of spring. The white line is a scar of "now," drawn sharp and bold, already fraying at the seams before the sound can catch it.
The window is an open mouth breathing in the gold, the scent of waking dirt and sun-warmed glass. Steam wanders from the ceramic rim, a slow dance in the light, bitter and dark against the afternoon’s honey. The clock on the wall has lost its teeth; there is only the slow migration of light crawling across the floorboards.
Somewhere, a sparrow stitches the silence with bright, erratic needle-points of sound. Moments stretch like pulled sugar— the plane’s trail becomes a smudge, a memory of movement left to drift in the stillness. The cup is warm against the palm, anchoring the heart to a Friday that is quietly, beautifully, slipping away.
