Traitor
He will not come back. He’d better be not coming back. Last night, when I revealed my little secret to him, he found out I was as innocent as a sheep. Right now I know. He came checking his story was safe. That I didn’t find him guilty. That the news weren't displayed to me, yet. But they did. The news are as light as heavy. I’m sitting on the garden bench. An hour ago I was elated, ruefully contemplating how the gritty dust in the fields was dancing. In this odd state of critical mind, I allegedly discovered his mystery. The dog is running chasing birds and butterflies. I’ve covered my body in glitter, and my sight is pointing in the right corner to strike whichever car is driving by the front road of the house. The world without end, he is not coming back. But, possibly, maybe he solely took the other road. Ten minutes ago I was sinking in the bathtub, singing with my lungs and window open. I heard some neighbours walking down the street. I again hear a car. The dog runs to it