The walls cave in on her,
like the roof of a long abandoned shack.
she clings to the apathy of a cold cup of coffee.
“Did you like it?”
A voice from nowhere.
“I sent you a dream.”
Tithes of cigarettes,
and butterscotch candy.
Brick dust shakes in a cracked windowsill.
Tiny waves ripple in a fresh, steaming cup
and the tea leaves shudder.
An old, kitchen table serves space for an ink pen and paper,
And I write your story.