It’s three in the morning and she sits outside in the middle of December
smoking her fourth pack of cigarettes.
Her body rests lightly against the cement.
To a neighborhood runner she may appear delicate or dainty,
perhaps looking feather-like.
She is a feather that no longer floats when dropped from above.
Emptiness is the product of her weightlessness.
A Styrofoam cup is gripped tightly in her hands
and three other cups continue to drift down the pavement
drifting further into the night.
She continues to pose thoughtless
but that is impossible when her heart has just be drowned
in a sea of poison.
The waves of language intoxicate her soul
leaving her heart to succumb its final beats alone.
Her heart jolted the first time the venom left their lips.
They released it so carefully and rehearsed like they were
speaking to the Queen of England
or teaching a child about sex.
You want to say that there was comfort in the way they spoke
but that would be angelic in a situation like this.
They started with “I’m sorry” and ended with “he’s dead”
and she received no explanation as to why
she is sitting outside in the middle of the night
and he is not.
Another cigarette is lit and with every inhale she becomes a little lighter.
The wind will never pick her up again.
Her feather-like emptiness and the coffee that circulates through her body
keeps her cemented to the ground
not allowing her to soar through the air anymore.