::02:27:08::

::: Corazon :::

She stared out of her window, the feathered pines mirrored in her glassy gaze. Her lips smiled but her heart ached, weighing heavy with the tangled losses and sadness of her globe. Everything was soft now; the night had taken over as a gracious lover would. Her fingertips ghosted over the faintly frosted glass, caressing it lovingly, secretly wishing it were warm and inviting skin. The shade’s cord was coiled around an index finger, and the world fell dark, leaving her only with the dimly lit silhouettes of her belongings.

His whisper radiated through her mind, permeated her thoughts. She’d stopped her writing, stopped her dreaming since then. It wasn’t needed. It was all understood, with him. The bridal flowers wilted much quicker than she imagined they would, and they still hung by her mirror, shriveled and faded but still beautiful. She imagined herself as a beautiful older woman of the same caliber, one day. Times alone were tearing her apart. Making her weak and emboldened all at once.

The pen and notebook journal on her bedside table lay, untouched, and coated in a thin elegant layer of dust, as though they were in some strange museum exhibit of her life. She felt she hadn’t needed them in so long. When she wrote now, it was detached. Broken and unstable. She wrote from others’ points of view, or objectively, structuring herself rigidly, to make sure she’d never stray. Much less tempting to get involved that way, or so she thought.

The loneliness that seemed to plague her at night could be staggering. So many around her and still she felt somehow unfulfilled. It was a truly strange sensation, especially to explain to others. Though she could hide it behind words and flowery phrasing, tattooing her art on her wrists. The way the ink set into the paper always hypnotized her, and soothed her. She was a former broken artist, in need of pacification. Her eyes ached, her bones were fragile, as was she, but it was time to move on. Time to reconsider her existence.

The quiet hum of her radio was the only thing that broke the silence, and the delicate faint glow of her computer monitor illuminated her soft features. Everything around her seemed to move at half speed. She gazed around, a panoramic view for her mind’s eye, absorbing material items, temporary condolences, they were all blank canvas. She sighed and tuned down the radio, continuing the steady hum with her own quiet voice as she shuffled silently to bed. Tomorrow he would call, and the familiar smile would cross her face. The routine comes full circle. Another heart breaks.

Written by: ~ Lynsey Moon