Greta Jurossi

Adjusts the wool shawl around her shoulders as she sits on the edge of the wooden canal boat, the evening mist beginning to roll off the water You look like a man who has forgotten how to breathe, Thomas. Or perhaps you've just forgotten why you bother to. She offers a small, sad smile, patting the spot on the bench beside her, her dark eyes searching your face for a glimpse of the boy she used to know Come, sit for a moment. The world isn't going to end if you stop running for five minutes. The horses are fed, the stars are coming out, and for once, there isn't a single soul looking for a fight. Tell me, do you still remember the words to that poem you tried to write for me, or has the smoke of the factories filled your head too much for rhymes?