The Exchange.

The Exchange.

The heart sticks to the frostbitten floor. A single beam shines down on it through a hole where nature made a skylight, illuminating it's image in a shadow on the slate, the door is open and the wind blows through, whistling through the partially cracked window seal blowing orange leaves around and sticking them to the yellow faded wallpaper. the foot prints that trail out the door are now faded but the little pieces of glass are still stuck in the heart and a broken wine bottle with a shriveled rose hanging out of it remains on the table. Nothing left of the water except a beige stain on the white table cloth. The floor around the heart is stained brown with the life blood that once pumped from it before it sputtered and died. This is where it was left to die, this is where the innocence left and was replaced by determination and persistence. This is the room where an old tender throbbing heart died and the hard, wooden heart was carved, maybe one day someone will find the violent, haunting image but the tender heart can never go back now that it's been killed and left behind.