perched on your windowsill, against the glass.
hours passed
and you reach your hands above your head as if the one you once loved most was pulling you close.
and by the morning you will be three steps ahead of the other beating hearts whose feet remained stuck in the door.between wooden walls of personal accomplishments.
and at your will, you comb the black strands that hung from holes on your head.
silky, much like the sheets slept on.
resting on your shoulders, complimenting the vacancy in your blue eyes.
their melting, resolving their uncensored stares.
and your skin begins to fall off of your bones
floating above your rotted head,
fallen to the ground.
