Softly spoken secrets, scattered and stained.
A thorn’s thoughtful gaze casting its judgment.
There is no moral here left to be gained.
She may try, but no more shall she repent.

Seconds, minutes, brushstrokes drawing the dawn.
Each moment wasted by her hesitance.
“What does it all mean? Is it truly gone?
Or perhaps it’s just cheap happenstance.”

A facsimile. Mere memories of you.
She blinks her eyes, and greets the morning dew.