There she lay, poised
beautifully silent
a porcelain moment of grace.
Position fixed
gaze set upon the stars;
Drifting.

Hollow
Save for the soft pulse in her neck
she. was. dead.
The soft flutter of moist lashes.
The hard rise of unhealthy lungs
was she dead...?

the numb nothingness
of a girl so emotionally full

Empty echoes of a lone night
only 30 hours
already missing.
what she doesn't miss...
Turning to pages and lines
such order
she can be the wild chaos.
Safely,
     behind silenced lips.

But her mind runs dry
and her pen gets tired.

(It's been a long day anyway)

She sleeps
in a coffin of sheets
legs straight
fingers gently keeping
imagined flowers held close.
[Jasmines.  Yes.
No.  Sunflowers... those don't blind
yet she can still thrive off them...]
mouth slack
eyes gentle.

Save for that
        ever so slight
lift and fall from
imaginary petals, one might
consider her, dead.
..............