Light Knives and a Lesson Learned
She walks through a world of broken glass. Her rooms are filled with things she doesn't own, things she doesn't know. All she needs is sudden silence. When she walks the wind speaks through the trees and tells her many things. They tell her the secrets of the sunrise, how each one is just a little different. She learns what it is to pull life from air and ground. They speak in paradox, of how it feels to fly while buried, be trapped in freedom, live while dying. She doesn't ask for the secrets of old age, there's no point. Plants like her were made to be devoured. A slow smiles etches itself on her face. The wind dies down, the voices stop. She carries fake flowers through libraries, trailing slowly down the endless aisles. She thinks of them as forest cemetaries. Disjointed trees make frail, paper graves. She cries in silence, but doesn't move. She could be a sculpture on a rainy day. Back in her apartment now, and upside down. No way of knowing how slowly time passes. Her last watch died of loneliness. It died listening to the thrum of a faint pulse. She buried it in the dresser drawer. When it came time for the eulogy she couldn't find the words. Still upside down, back against a brick wall and the sun is about to break through the window. But it's ok, she know's his secrets now. This time she'll be ready.