She traveled a lot, says the lined up plane tickets

stashed on the precise side of the dresser;

She had a thing for drinking, say the bottles of wine

buried in the base of her makeup bags, all almost empty.

Despite the drinking, she routinely made art, say the sculptures and paint, 

leaving the ground considerably dirty.

She wasn’t the character to misuse time and do nothing,

says the planner set on the rumpled table, revealing what

the next task was.

A man lived with her, says the shoes 

scrambled by the entrance of the house. 

He was a man perceived for sleeping,

says the crater he left in the worn-out bed. 

The man went out most nights, says the 

receipts he left on the dresser from the dive bar.

The lady was gone for a long time now,

 and the man has gotten furthermore lonely. 

Something went wrong, says the red rose petals 

dispersed on the floor, small candles aligned leading down to their bedroom. 

There was champagne poured into two wine glasses

 with thick pink lipstick smudged onto one of the cups.

The woman who lived with the man had left her luggage, 

by the door and dumped her boots next to these astonishing pink heels 

that were too small to fit her feet. Later in the night, the windows

cry as their identity has been shattered due to the impact of her damage.

Something went wrong, they say.