Simply spoken prose

And tainted tea bags left lying on her counter

She's thinking hard on nothing

While a brown stain creeps across the marble

Smelling like India and poison

The window's open.

Telltale signs of broken nights

Lie like glass across her sheets

Red lines greet her every morning

Gritty eyes and strangled limbs like murdered grace

Lace curtains float, suspended

The window's open.

Groaning fumes and silence

She collapses against a car that never starts

The road to the city lined with rose tinged clouds

Soft reflections of a life gone slowly past hell

She looks up above the blackened brick.

The window's open.

Words and teabags spin down roadways

She stumbles up the stairs, possessed and panicked

The window should be shut, should be shut, never open never open

Cool lace against her face so softly

"Good morning and goodbye" it whispers, waiting.

The window's open.

A/N Interpret it as ye will.