She exists in the non existent.

She looked through the window

The rusted pane, the tainted glass

She sipped and licked her lip

Sipped some more

Wine wasn’t enough that night

Looking for a face amongst the stars

Another in the patterns the clouds make

Giving an ear to the silences of the night

She wriggled her fingers through the strand of hair

That carelessly danced to the rhythm of the wind

Her fragile hands slid the glass away

With laden eyes she kept sorting,

That strand of hair

Those sloppy clouds

The mean stars

In the spring outside she couldn’t reconcile

The winter inside her didn’t die

The delightful symphonies that whore burnt away

The whore named Time

Left over are,
Torched spirits
Unlit reminiscenses

Empty wine bottles

Brimmed blood-shot eyes

A world that ceased to exist

A self existence denied

An unfinished story

A finished life.