Her face is as linoleum, dimensionless save for the jaundiced shadows gathering in the chalice beneath her bound lids. Butterfly ashes moored in perpetual chrysalis. Her temperament makes her age incalculable. So deep is her grief that I cannot devise a persona that predates it. She courts death ambivalently, pills and wine comprise the bulk of her diet and consume so utterly her senses that I can not impose upon her a notion that she can not divest.
My chill is met with the indifference of her pursed blue lips. Not even a sweater despite the materialization of breath. The lights flicker behind the silk of her obfuscating tears. My footsteps dissipate within her sobbing breaths. A looking glass unpolished, her dull irises implore still the warmth of my lifeless hands. She occupies my loneliness but does not diminish in the least my hunger. Is this life? Then for what is it that I still linger? Surely death is more conventional, more welcoming than this? I place a mug of tea by her outstretched hand and watch her sip gingerly never questioning the means of acquisition.
(This is a draft/sketch I was working on for Tale Weavers but then I got an email from my mom her TSH factor which should be 4.0 is 51.00 she has hypothyroidism and it is causing problems with her heart now and she has no insurance and I am afraid she is going to ignore it. She wanted to visit this summer but is now to sick the above story has nothing to do with this it is just why I didn’t polish/finish)