She perched solitary, cheval glass in hand
His tie on the boards beside her, cast in haste with decision made.
Sometimes things don't work as proposed
As illuminated by the torn and discarded Dear Jane letter under her chair.
Her eye the lightest shade of purple,
Her hair of someone tossed - and that she was.
The ripple of her cellulite thighs nearly covered by her peignoir - open to expose sagging breasts and ashy skin.
He was there in her spring,
Now in winter he turn callow
As the supine often do.
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Audrie is a writer and editor living in Illinois. She is a fan of all things horror and pop culture.