Friday, June 2012
She leans in through the window
Only to take a whiff of fresh air and maybe
The scent of lilies.
The nightingale sings like a hymn from heaven
She says goodbye to the clouds for fear of not getting to say the words ever again
Yet she stops and thinks
Maybe, just maybe there's a part of her that's important.
Whereas there's nothing wrong with the way she looks
The way she speaks
The way she eats.
But the apathetic demons are what stops her
She grieves, taking one last look, one last smell
Maybe, there's enough time to think it through
But in her head, there's none.
>>k.l
