She's cold like the dead.

She's walking on the streets, and holding her lover firmly in her hand.
His profession is to make customized coffins for the dead.
She hates it.
An excuse?

She stops to utter some words to him.
None are heard, cos of the speeding traffic.

Just then, it begins to rain.
Her mascara beings to smudge.
He wonders why she's crying.
Or is she?

Who then will make a customized one for him, when he's dead?




Copyright © 2008.
Written by Emmanuel Joseph Victor (2007).
All Rights Reserved.