BEIGE DOOR

My favourite door of all time was that beige one.

That beige door wasn't hefty at all.

Easy to open was that beige door.

Stunning beige door of mine.

Your hands built that lovely beige door. It occasionally calls my name, requesting me to watch over and in return, it promised to keep me warm. So, I sat in front of it, watching, protecting my wonderful door. Beautiful. I was spellbound by the door. I can't even remember my own name.

Oh, how much I adore that door.

With a snap and a crack, the door let out a tortured cry. My beautiful door has a large hole in the center, and it is crimson all over. You were standing by the side; it was red and wet.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I slept. I wasn't paying attention to you. I didn't protect you," I cried, and you watched me. I attempted to fix the wooden fragments with my scarlet hands and a hiss.

The muscles in my arms grew weaker, and my throat began to hurt. Two hours have passed since I last heard anything from my wonderful door. Oh, what do I do?

After you've had enough of watching me, you said you'll take care of it.

By the time I returned to my beautiful door, it had a new addition. There is no blood, just a lovely Chinese New Year decoration on my door.

I smiled; I thanked you.

But why hasn't my door spoken to me yet?

Why am I still cold?