- (at least she tries) -

It's freezing cold,

The bow window on the second floor was her favorite.
We knew:
tastes, habits, blood type, reveries;
there was nothing she could hide.
And there we stood,
         in silence,
watching her every move,
knowing her every thought
spurting from her paranoid mind.

Outside.

In the dry, cold garden,
she walked carrying a heavy box,
barefoot on a patch of black ice,
a ripped robe on her white skin.

Inside,

We knew what she was about to do,
yet watched her secretly
as she went to the back of the garden
and wood cracked under
her unearthly feet.

It took her such a long time
to light a good fire,
and once she succeeded,
she was shivering, shaking.

In a state of shock.

All that came out
of that heavy green box,
she spread carefully,
as if feeding the hungry fire.

Trying hard,

She stood gazing for an eternity
at the crackling bonfire,
whirling blaze,
spiraling smoke
and dancing flames.

Pale, greyish,
as the foggy evening was falling,
she assembled the ashes
into the emerald box.

Useless,

We kept spying on her,
aware of what she'd done,
         needlessly,          to us,
the part of herself she feared.

Forever haunted;

When she finally came in,
frozen, cyanosed,
anemic, worried,
yet dreamy,
she wasn't aware of our presence.

Soon, she'll hear them again.

We were there to stay with her,
yet she was foolish enough to believe
that all that was left of us
                   were ashes.