(lily)

A round, gray figure
with her back turned
stands at the sink
the water flowing over her hands,
hushed.

Dust dances gracefully around her in
golden shafts of light that
come from a single window,
draped in threadbare curtains,
leading out to a worn, empty yard.

She stares and scowls at the lonely,
rusty swing set
as she dries her hands
and mutters something quietly to herself.

She busies herself and runs her hand
lovingly over a wrought-iron wine rack full of
cheap wine bought from a liquor store
down the street
and wonders what she'll drink tonight.

She doesn't bother with the single dying lily in the glass vase
double over and drooping
its white petals tinged with a decaying brown
its bright yellow center turned dull.

She can't bear to look at it.

She leans back into her creaky chair and presses a hand
gently on the
weathered wood of the table
enjoying the feeling of it on her fingers just as she enjoys
the feeling of a full glass resting heavily in her palm
and just as she enjoys
watching the bloody sunset with wet eyes and
enjoys reminiscing, feeling the emotions come to the surface once again
prickling and painful as if they were right beneath her skin.

The glass seems to crumble in her hands,
sharp and cruel,
and she can feel her heart sinking with the sun.

Her eyes are dry when the last streaks of sun disappear behind the horizon
to light another person's day.

She's left staring into the dark,
and all its comforts and cruelties,
hoping there's someone staring back,
but knowing that there isn't
and knowing that there never will be.

…and softly, she sings…