by ty

he remembers the echoes,

the cries

within the darkness of

the cluttered flat –

the sound of newspaper against walls,

and bare palms against stained tiles.

and the muffled melodies

formed by the cerulean

bubbles leaving one’s dry lips –

flakes of dry skin falling off

her calloused fingers as he

held her hand –

and the sound of an

injection, a transparent liquid

thrust into her veins –

leaving her to question

the price of happiness against

the facades of one’s financial state-

for thin sheets of paper reeking of

sweat and wine never

sufficed to anchor her thoughts.

they were never sufficiently strong

to cause her to gravitate towards

sanity, and stability in the darkest


AN: its been awhile. for the same one.