Listless eyes roam over the ripples of despair,

Staring back at his, hers blushing at his laughter which is,

Half-hearted, half-bored,

like she's an afternoon omnibus, 

Performance only enough to keep half of his atttention

on those trembling lips, whispering

Something incomprehensible, which you know is only,

thinly veiled pleading, pleasing you that it is

Your feet she has arrived at,

to see the sight of misery itself

on its knees. 

                      You  are weighing up the costs,

wondering if it is worth your while to

Help the hopeless woman,

who could not leave you because she is 

Too weak, coming back, cap heavy in hands

That have held nothing but the 

Shadow of yours since you left.

She knows that you will laugh at

Her proposal, blowing dandelion seeds into

   a vaccuum, so they might never grow again, tearing

Skin from her flesh, bearing her body in

Self-conscious exposure before a door

long ago closed. 

But she grasps onto it anyway, like a spotlight

protagonist, at the apex of their story, speaking

to an empty room, assemblage left long ago so they might 

not have to hear the same stories which 

No longer regale them,

Threadbare anecdotes,

on her dalliance with the devil, capturing only

the darkness. emollient voice so contrasted with

His voiceferous feeling, noisy thunder-like rumbles, echoing

off the ceiling, without needing a microphone. 

 

She was told about the

Need for a prequel, fresh titles for the table,

Testing whether she was truly able to bring an appropriate apotheosis

To its finale,

her autobiography, blowing in scepticism from the crowds, 

Silently plugging her ears with cotton, and she is still on her knees

Unsure how many years it's been since that

Recital was forgotten.