I am the faucet in which no water flows.
She touched me not for she feared
that I would sense the pain
and the hurt
through the tips of her fingers.

I am the mirror that saw her face:
eyes swollen, cheeks sunken.
I should have held her but
she looked away;
afraid of her own contorted features.

I am the tree outside the window pane.
She glanced at me to let me know
that nobody knows
of this expedition.

I am the ghost that stood beside her
quivering frame
which told the story
of empty hearts and broken backs.

I am the frigid wall on which she leaned to.
She breathed no utterance,
but I heard her speak
of how alone she feels
in life and in love and in helplessness.

I am the floor on which she stood upon.
Her weight shifting from foot to foot.
Unaware of how much they suffer;
she’d rather be numb all over.

I am the room in where she cussed and
sobbed the greatest failures of her life.
Is she ever really happy, I wonder,
or is she the Great Pretender?

I am that miniature speck of matter
that believes in her.
I don’t have a clue about where I am,
but I know that I’m fading away.