she
(*her 2am moods
were monotone
dialogue
on the receiver*)
is at her loudest
in sepia photographs;
fake smiles,
like shotgun blast;
her shrapnel days
fall silently
in-between
cheap perfume
bottles on the
night-stand.
in the drawer is
every memento
she seldom mentions
(*empty, jejune...
hushed
frustrations*).
with each exhale,
her pillow fills with
crumpled words
(*embellishment,
a waking hour's only
comfort...
an insomniac's
internal monologue*).