Shes thumbing through hairstrands
placed in between two thirsty fingers
eyes vaguely transfixed
on a photo of a girl in a white dress
her reflection, in a mirror, facing backwards.

Shes reminiscing
the way he held her close
hiding under diluted linen sheets
and even though the distance between
cuts through like paper upon skin,
somehow she still finds time to breathe.

Every morning,
a new daily routine
worked into this pseudo-life
now that her head is the only one
gracing the headboard at night.

You can't actually write about loneliness
until you actually know what it feels like
to want to exhale for the last time.

10/31/2003

Author's Note: I'm not sure if this is finshed or not. It seems a little incomplete to me right now. maybe it'll change. then again, maybe it won't..

Posted on 10/31/2003
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