She sat at the mahogany table,
salty water drops splashing the wood veins,
meticulously clenching the unopened envelope.
The messenger came,
wearing a raincoat.
Like a shadow in the night,
a darkness far from moonlight,
Spilled ink, blackest black,
branched in veins down the thick,
white parchment.
Russian roulette,
the bullet has been shot,
but the signature was wrong.
The messenger came,
the raincoat not wet.
She looked up with
wild eyes.
You'll need a boat, not an umbrella.