she sits, quietly waiting for the sun to fade.
Yellowed book upon tired lap,
she sighs and turns back a page.
The storyline is long forgotten,
she knows not who the characters are
nor how intangible lives connect
entangled each one with the other.
Her heavy eyelids slick with sorrow
lift slowly up toward the sky,
sees the blackbird fly away
and wonders whether he will come
Tonight perhaps? Maybe tomorrow?
And what tales will he bring to her?
Will he stroke her hair or kiss
her first? She feels a passion rise.
Her belly filled with such excitement
Long fingers twitch upon the page.
A smile starts forming on the edges
Of her tired and sallow face.
As eyes close softly in protection
of the fragile dream she dreams,
sunlight flickers through the window
gently caresses greying hair.
All too soon the dream is over.
From inside dormant truth awakes -
He will not come tonight, tomorrow;
she will never see his eyes again.
The sickness grows like falling fog
strangling her morbid thoughts.
Desperately holding stale breath in
she gives herself to evening.
