Overlooking the damp greenery
she stood, her palms trembling –
she clawed at her features,
her pale skin leaving her thin jawline
as she fell into a pile of nothingness,
a soul who hated her façade.

The clock was twitching, its arms crooked
yet robust – she had her conditions within
her fingers, her arms losing strength;
if it had been a lone fight,
it sounded futile
and hopeless.

She waited for soft utterance,
a quiet apology or a silent promise of
commitment – yet she got her own voice
echoing back through the hollow
corridors, her solitude embracing her
more than anything else had
ever attempted.

Her shoulders slumped,
her hopes darkened into the
fullest shade of pearl black, her
eyes gaping galaxies of uncertainty as
she had become a buoy floating
too far out into
sea.