The crack of a flame
Clinging to the air 
Breaks the quiet
And she exhales. 
Glass beads strung carelessly 
Are cold to the skin.

All the same.

Long fingers turned coarse. 
A painted face 
Turned smudged.
Distant humming is
Raw to the throat,
The haunt of laughter. 

Silver pity 
Stained with doubt
Leaves no room for ghosts. 
She inhales. 

Featured image: Sasha Tylor on WIkimedia Commons with license.

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