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.
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