Desolation

In the desolate land in front of me, pieces of decaying beauty lay strewn about beneath my feet, and on for what seems like endless steps away from what used to be. I smell the dusty wood of a broken home as I feel it's every crack and crevice with curious toes. The beauty of this relic almost tangible, taking all the wasted spaces in my mind as I envision what could have been. Touching imaginary curtains; envisioning a child of no more than three clinging to her mother's skirt, begging for an apple from the kitchen counter bathing in morning light. Falling to pieces in a matter of minutes with last kisses, decaying alone, bit by bit, like a long-forgotten dream. Southern belle accents crumbling with the whitewashed walls that knew it all, as windows of pretty faces shatter. An isolated incident, no one with any recollection of what may have been.