Sketches of being nonchalant through symphonies of unsent letters. Playing.

Drinking the melancholy through a cloudless night, alone. Swings betrayed.

Stealing the numbers, sitting in the blue, sinking.

How red the moon hangs below?

How crushed are the fairy lanterns?

She lived. She died. She survived.

To breed a demon within.

She wanted a pause. She wanted a release. Not weeping. Not longing. Surviving.

To breach the silence its thickness, She pretends to crumble her summer.

Idle musings to feel the blade cut of the grass, dancing barefoot, losing a grip.

As laughter emanates, pockmarked with a mortal sense, trying the road, less.

Inhaling does not hurt anymore. And nor does the whiskey in her tone.

From her hidden detritus, she laughs.