She is sickly, she is sad.
Her attempts at normalcy are all but feigned.
She lies to herself, she tells herself a fairytale
so that she may perhaps sleep through the night.
Her smile is a facade; her pain is endured alone,
and she chases a shadow she can never grasp, never reach, never catch.
Her eyes are insincere, her reassurances mean nothing, and her voice is inaudibly trembling.
Her life is a joke, her fate is a tragic comedy, her words are blasphemy.
Over the years, her bones have sunken into silence; she has submitted herself to the irrefutable, inescapable truth.
She sits on the patio on a cloudy, humid Sunday.
Where are you, dearest? Where did you go? is carried on the nonexistent breeze...
If she could feel that person's touch, then surely, it would all be okay.
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