She sits on a love seat with no love in her heart for herself or anyone else,
fiddling with a photo of a happier time when the bags under her icy bright eyes were genetic and not yet permanently engrained into her personality.
She’s dusted with the lonely despair of 5 am on a cold summer morning and she longs for the warmth of espresso, a strong, sturdy and a bitter comfort,
but is only left with the tepid loose grounds in the bottom of her artfully chipped mug.
Her soul, held in by her skin like a water balloon wrapped up in elastic bands, longing for the warmth of the darkness and shrinking away from the impending brutality of the sunrise,
searches for reason in the vanishing sturdiness of yesterday.
She sits in the stark cold of her lifeless apartment, remembering a day full of dried lavender bouquets, green tea with honey, and window boxes full of fresh smelling rosemary,
with a mind stuck on the bugs infesting the dirt underneath.
She revels in the soft breeze, sticky popsicles and beautiful yellow weeds of a time both a million miles and a split second behind her,
and for a moment she can taste the sunshine filled purity of a love once held in the palm of her trembling, faithful hands.