Change
It's quiet. In the pit of the stomach, the last of the memories churn Hear the levers disengage one by one. There's no yard sale, no listings, Just a disengaged observer, Amused at what was, Peering at the sticky tendrils still weakly stretching out to ensnare what was left of her A whiff of agony flutters around looking for a place to land Dreams, no longer clutched closely, float around, like torn pieces of paper descending to the ground. Colours - crimson and blue - paint time, Shucks, it's losing colour. Falling, falling, falling, with nothing to hold on to, The blast of change rushing through the hair Forcing the eyes shut Nothing to hold on to, nothing to fall on. There. That's it.