23ii.

She loses track of the days.

Another afternoon slipped by, another sunbeam lost in her eyes, the shadow between her brows.

23i.

One finger trailing glossy black.

Down, mondaymornings and thursdayafternoons smudging softly.

22.

Oh, blue.

Pen cap between lips, eyes butterfly halfopen in late afternoon light.

A drop of ink, a solitary flower blooming heartache in the midst of placid white.

21.

And she jerks awake, heart thumping and eyes filling with her delicate dreams.

Crumble, flickering down her pale cheeks in translucent shadows.

20.

She reads their old emails and she cries.

Not because she misses them, but because she just doesn't hurt anymore.

19iii.

But pianos are so expensive.

Ivory, warmed palepale pink where her fingers kissed the keys.

19ii.

Whiterose finger, she brushes the black, the cold cold ebony.

19i.

She trailed incomplete symphonies in the soft white light.

Lyricless song, hanging in the still air like the unfinished portrait of a lover.

18.

For Dramaqueen.

Sweetsour, tart on her tongue. Like memories long gone, good riddance, suddenly remembered like a half-forgotten dream. The lingering of candlesmoke, the scent of old perfume, a lipstick smudge on tissue paper.

Skittles. The word smiles back at her like a childhood drawing. Crayoncoloured, paintsmudged. Lying warm in her hands, before she lets it slip, like her innocence, like a broken promise, through her fingers.

Bright bursts of colour, she watches them dance across the street.

17.

Snapshot, a split second when she turned around, her hair a whirl around her shoulders, eyes closed, lashes flickering, her brows in a sharp arch where she was caught in surprise, where the flash lit her face, made her glow.

16.

She decides that one day, she's going to look through all the dictionaries she can find, and if the word Love is defined, she doesn't give a damn what the definition is, she'll call up the author (or whatever they're called) of that dictionary, and tell him that he's a fucking liar.

15.

She keeps telling herself the same thing.

Let go, let go, let go, let

Go.

14.

She borrows romance novels from the library just to laugh at the hopeless protagonists.

Idiots.

13v.

She blinks, palepink morning kissing her cheeks.

She catches the soft sparkle between her fingers.

Curling, reaching, dancing in the light.

13iv.

Invisible dreams.

She reaches out to touch them, to caress them, to trap them in butterfly nets.

Disappearing without a trace.

4.16 AM.

13iii.

The world flickers beneath her eyelids.

A flutter of neon pinkpurpleblueyelloworangegreen in the shadows.

Unreal.

3.01 AM.

13ii.

She can hear her heartbeat.

Loud, clear in the wordless, soundless, noiselessness.

th-
ump.

She could have drowned in it.

2.11 AM

13i.

The silence engulfs her.

In midnight black, she watches bright, neongreen numbers. Flashing.

One, Two, Three.

1.09 AM.

12.

Tendrils of darkness curl around her throat.

Colour me black, black, black.

The voices, they whisper in her ear, forgotten mumbles and murmurs, nightmares buried in old fears, goodbye, goodbye, this was never meant to last. They're real but they do not exist, they drown in clouds of forgotten dreams.

She stumbles off the edge of cold, cold glass (the fragments cut her rosebud fingers), falling, the stark silence of nothings and nobodies strangling her, with only a sea of tears to catch her, to embrace her, to destroy her.


She wakes up gasping, drowning in white sheets.

11.

She's afraid of opening her eyes.

The darkness is blinding.