she sits on her bed, the floor scattered with candles. Her face is lit in warm tones, but shining with tears. Her heart feels cold because it pines for the warmth of a person long-passed.
Photos are scattered around her. Old photos, of a time she cannot remember but only create. There is nobody to recount. No more bedtime stories.
The soundtrack is a single song with violins. And keyboard. A shaky female vocal with subtle percussion and a powerful ambience. She wept.
Nobody sees her weakness. She hides it well. Her stormy eyes are the clue to discover her past. She's got a rigid positive attitude and a convincing smile.
They're all too wrapped up in their own romances to notice she's drowning in wine and solitude, and melted wax. Flying blind without guidance or support, she meanders emotionally bedraggled through the chapters of her life.
She's got the self hatred of a guilty man on the run. Thoughts linger in her mind, truly, she doesn't want this a minute longer. What's a life if you fake happiness out of habit?
Next to her head at the top of the bed where she seldom sleeps, there's written in small pencil, "time heals, you just have to wait".
She hates waiting. Life pours salt in the wound.
[word vomit, I think I've got an articulate strand of food poisoning tonight. Sleep is for the week that were created by it's initial neglect.]
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