Sadness becomes her,

Her, sitting there with vintage pearls-

Dangling image in her nostalgic eyes,

Looped between

Tired fingers.

She is worn like an old wash cloth,

(has been used far too many times

to clean up their spills).

The sun shines onto her through a dusty window,

Kisses her cheeks,

Smiles warmly,

But she will not curve her sleeping lips,

She will challenge the sun,

Letting ice inspire her glare.

She wants to be poured full of love,

Craves arms around her,

Where is that voice whispering melodically-

‘I am here’?

Nowhere.

And so she wears sadness, it is her shawl,

And as this sadness becomes her…

She becomes this sadness,

Characterized by nothing more,

Expecting nothing less.