Gemotions

He sat on the porch swing, the rhythmic creak a hollow echo in the stillness of the evening. The air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle, but it didn't soothe him. He found himself picking at the worn paint, a nervous habit. The television flickered inside, a cooking show showcasing the "Starlight Strudel," *his* recipe. He didn't feel angry. He didn't feel anything, really. Just a deep, aching void where his passion used to be. The swing continued to creak, a lonely soundtrack to his quiet contemplation.