She’s sitting on an afternoon
Seeing shadows rolled outside her window,
where cheery bright arsed men in day suits
walk over the dreams and promises left on her cities pavements

She reaches out to some dirty floor t-shirt and her last cigarette
bedside manner mess

-she’s the woman you would have killed for once-

She’s muttering to herself
To
the sirens out her window
To
the cold that creeps in under the
back door that never locks

She’s opening her mascara soft eyes
To
black stars on her pillow
To
an ache in her lungs that
feels like fire should

-she’s the woman that used to look with childlike wonderat the curls on the edges of your temples, and think that she could fall hard into it all-

She walks to the only mirror in the hall
and looks at herself
Naked and pressing down finger blue
onto her heart
She reaches for organs
that she is certain could stop at any moment
from the breaking that she hears in the silence of night

Last week she wrote on a small piece of paper;

“It hurts so much without you waking with me, that blood wine bottled heat we shared”

She placed it above the mirror in the hall
She looks at it every morning
like this
whilst her fingers turn blue.