Our home would have a garden overflowing with all variety of roses
by Christos Polydorou
His loneliness was so alive, it could write a book. Find me. He was seated by the window in a carriage on a train going into central London, and the train stopped to let off passengers and to let other passengers on, and opposite the man by the window on the train, another man on the platform looked at him with clear longing. Tumbling. They continued to look at each other, though it was something that neither ever did, and when the train continued on its journey, and pulled away from the man on the platform, the man by the window sat up and turned around and looked at the man on the platform until he could no longer see him, and then he felt heartbroken until he realized it was just another game of desire and despair, as unshakable and as impenetrable as the very firmament. Pulse.