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Oct 2014
Soft, hush, a body stirs
a scene eerily undisturbed
and yet an arm, white as foam
draped over the girl who sleeps alone

she wakes
her heart beats at the touch
confusion gives way, soft, hush
disturbed, afraid
cold seeps through her feet
marble, not a dream
she watches herself
soft, hush, a body stirs
dreading the day, buried in pillows
red hair, red hair
same smile, same eyes

the other makes a cup of coffee
two sugars, drip of milk
routine smells of butter
and strawberry jam

the other can't see, so she only watches
the girl who sleeps alone
now an observer, undisturbed
a ghost in the sidelines
as routine takes the other by the hand
dresses her up, paints her lips
high heels, high heels
red, black, pale and nothingness
words left unsaid
the girls who sleeps alone remains
undisturbed, messy hair, no dress, no heels

both, disturbed and undisturbed
to the marble palace
where the living honor the dead
Mark, she thinks, the girl who sleeps alone

Oliver, poor Oliver
found his mentor resembling his paintings
red, red against black
black eating away the red
and yet... red, dripping from his wrists
red, splattered on the floor
Rothko, no more paintings
Mark, no more red

the other is gone
no, it can't be
the other existed, or perhaps it was 1970
and Rothko never slit his wrists
and perhaps... and perhaps
Oliver, poor Oliver
looking at the girl who sleeps alone
and there she is, very real
splendor, messy hair
no black dress, no black heels
Rothko was right about fear
and one day the black will swallow the red
not a trace of it on her lips
based on a short story I wrote and the life and death of Mark Rothko.
Andrea Zapiain
Written by
Andrea Zapiain
   betterdays and Weeping willow
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