(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).