She looks at those
tired grey-blue eyes,
underlined in ash
to emphasize a point
that meant something once.
(She must have forgotten it,
like androgyny and poems.)
She stares at the black-hole centres,
trying to fit them into that
round, innocent child's face,
that face that should smile at life,
not wish to shrink,
to return to the womb
and hide there.

She reads, "Would you run away with me?"
and pauses for a moment to appreciate
the beautiful idea of escape.
Almost as a punishment for daring to hope,
she's hit
with the reality of reality,
reprimanded for believing
that the action could ever remain as beautiful
as the idea.

"He will. He has to."
The boy pleads with fate,
and she's there beside him
on hands and knees,
begging for some respite, for some reason
not to give up yet.

"What are you thinking about?"
"Walking in front of a car."
And she places herself there,
wanting to push him out of the way,
wanting to stand next to him,
wanting to understand
what God hath wrought,
and why exactly He wrought it
this way.

"....one for each day since I fell apart..."
and she toys with the idea,
tosses it up and catches it with the skill
of a professional.
She flips it around her fingers,
waiting for the slip-up,
waiting for the idea to catch,
to sink in,
to occur to her as a possibility
and not as a sin.

Because sometimes the rain
doesn't make you want to smile,
and grey doesn't seem so much comfortable
as it does cold, and far too much
like death.