Slurred words

and slowed movements

like water.

 

She’s a swift tide of

 

the lyrical.

and pale.

the graceful.

and stale.

 

And her fingers

lean from years of piano

fumble

 

to light the last cigarette.

 

She wants

a body

of fire.

 

Or just

a quick burst

of anything.

 

But she’ll settle for the smoke

pouring from her lips.

 

Floating.

 

And her eyes

match the twilight-

A subtle shift

from blue to grey.

 

Faded.

 

And she’s convinced

that if you tore her open

you’d find a drowning symphony.