Songbirds, like lost lovers, call to each other in the pale morning sun.
The wet grass darkens the cloth draped over her torso as she lies
down and considers the people who used to be so **** nice to her.
So joyous, their eyes brimmed with light and appreciation.
She saw those old eyes in the floating clouds, she saw them in the
negative space between the fallen leaves, she saw them seeing her
through the reflections in the ripping creek water as it rushed by.
Little glints of light, like shimmers of the way things used to be,
dance in her sight and taunt her to try and find a way to fix everything.
A way to return the light to her life.
A way to see those eyes again.
The eyes of the people
who used to be so nice.