Mr. Candlemeyer and the lonsesome

Mr. Candlemeyer’s lawn chair sat there silently, empty, and unfolded on the east-facing patio of his quaint 3-bedroom apartment. He often left his patio door wide open, welcoming the blare of the desolate sun, as it slightly burned a part of the cement ground that the orange patterned lawn chair quietly stood upon. The air of the apartment basked in its introversion while a large pine isolated the kitchen from the view of most of his prying neighbors. Two plants grew side by side in bland colored medium-sized pots, alone, yet firmly aware of their surroundings as they slowly pondered their age and growth. The railing that surrounded the patio was made of thick black iron, and the bars that circled the patio caged its abode to the visceral reality that surrounded it at times. The black cold railing in the early hours was normally welcomed by clammy hands when the weather was nice enough to exit the cave-like escape. Often, the patio was salted by the barren isolation of the morning dew, that would at times long-for a lonesome frail presence, as it moved about stretching its forsaken limbs in the sun. The now darkened kitchen lays fearful of the vibrant neighbors that encircle the presence of the household, yet the door always stays open in a forever slight hope that one day there may be a grace of a wholesome and sincere friendly interaction.