She keeps putting her hand over the candle,
waiting for her blackened skin to remind her where she left the moon waiting.
She keeps pouring out sentences between star light and waste,
not knowing where the line should be.
Blurry was never a word to describe her fictional little world.
If she was dying surely there would be plenty of signs,
more than midnight and empty dreams;
more than the hurt of the sun in the morning.
Surely there'd be violent shivers and screams.
But to her surprise, it had none.
Just a mild crackling of a dimming flame.
An oxygen starved beginning is all anyone ever had.
A hand encased. An ocher fantasy playing itself out in shadows on the wall
like children grasping at something other than emptiness.