just writing to write.

[_slavetothewage]

Muttering, like buzzing, like electricity,
she concludes another sentence/paragraph
and agreeing being an ending action, I nod.

The table takes on new meaning, doesn't it?
In this light? At this hour?
Those glasses gleaming, against her voice cracking.

With such verbosity! With such passion,
she strings together misinformation and lies
without hesitation, fear, respect.

Every now and then, her teeth show.
Out of a fit, crooked and dirty,
she shows them like battle scars.

Her voice will rise and fall, monotone as it is,
crawling on the floor and lining my body,
sometimes shaking me for attention.

And at this hour, everything is noticeable,
other than her face in the darkness. Like
the air, the cloth, the food left over (but not

her face is a remnant of some archaic time.
She would've been a spinster in that past
and she still hold some balance of disorder and determination).

A strange determination brought out of apathy
to rise to the peak of an mountainbuilding
and claim the lives of those lesser.

The light pollution claimed the stars,
but the memory lives on and maybe if remembrance strengthens
it will claim her also.