All motions are fluid as she descends down the stairway

So delicate

As if she never even touches the steps

She remains in the nightgown from the previous evening

Her long, dark hair complementing its dark complexion

A cup of tea that's a little too hot

The morning routine

She quietly moves to a window

Softly blowing steam off the top of her cup, fogging up the glass in front of her

The outcome of contrasting temperatures does not cause her to move

She remains still

Silent

Elegant

She turns to face me, and my eyes open

Where she used to lay, where I used to meet that euphoric smile

Is now clairvoyant

Steadily, she approaches me, hands bound behind her back, observing and forming judgements, discerning our essence, or lack. Does she know? Wait! What would she know? I've nothing to hide, nothing to show! Could it be she's a clairvoyant? In their daunting, cryptic ways? Is she a mystic a gypsy? Does she know of all our days? Can she read between--beyond the surface? Seeking through obscurity? Can she tell who are the martyrs? The traitors and betrayed? Does she know of all the secrets in the diamond dusk of age? Or can she read through the stories of the world, page by page? Alas, as she stands there, confusedly staring into my face's voids, I cannot help but wonder, who has sanity, and who's devoid...