Gossamer

Plump tears fall upon hollowed cheeks as Caroline concedes the contrary nature of living.  That it has taken pulling upon the fine cord of her own mortality for the world to reveal its beauty; a reluctant blushing bride.  Or maybe it is nothing more than a cheap parlor trick, or worse, a desperate plea for salvation.

Many mute conspirators sound a reassuring clatter within their plastic tomb as she shakes the small tub.

Pillows of mist hover above her submerged body as winter’s coattails skirt through the gap in the window, the frame’s innards exposing an industrious network of gossamer thread which cause her heart to ache so profusely, she can only conclude her body were already wrestling the throes of death.

Wrinkled toes curl in apprehension as she pops the diminutive lid.

Time courteously retreats from the room, heartbeat slowing to the rhythm of her grandmother’s old hall clock.

One last curtain to draw.

A sadness fills her stomach, the final meal before eternal slumber claims her and she prays the approaching felt dark remove the stain of shame etched upon her coal fire skin.

Her upturned hand offers only cheap pharmaceuticals as closed eyes wish in vain for another path, whilst a knowing voice breathes maybe there is upon her damp cheek.

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