Withered


I spilled chemicals all over my fingertips,
and I'll tell you a secret:
I didn't wash them off. They smelled so terribly lovely,
and there's nothing quite like watching my work spring to life.
Knowing the very same chemicals of my insignificant fingertips,
did it. Created a beautiful photograph,
from a seemingly endless roll of film.
Next, a pointless meeting in that cramped room
on the third floor, just like every Tuesday.
Every single Tuesday. How miserable.
Sometimes it leaves me thinking, though,
especially the time, when I was asked those questions.
One, regarding any future ink on my precious body.
I still don't know what I would choose,
the permanence of a tattoo is truly frightening.
Then more wasted time, in that silent area,
commonly referred to as the library.
On a scavenger hunt. Have you ever,
ever, been on a silent scavenger hunt?
Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.
Finally some time to myself, all to myself.
I read in the brilliant sunlight. Hm,
the poor author eventually committed suicide,
potentially because of the ending of her marriage.
Tragic. She ended her life, because he ended theirs.
Nearly three and a half hours had gone by.
And there you were.
I was listening... sort of.
But I glanced out the little window.
Initially, only briefly. But there you were.
You poor thing, trapped under the window pane.
I wanted to free you,
but I knew you were already dead.
You had to have died the minute you fell,
I could see you were already withered and brown.
A sigh escaped my lips as I looked away.
I am glad I am not a leaf.

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