Annie Wong - she

Like the sound of crunching October leaves. Her hair is chamber red now. She smokes a cigarette. Holding lightly to the salvation between her fingers. She inhales. And she stares at nothing. Of air. She’s sitting there. A product of black mascara and suburbia. Between her lips flows smoke. She never really spoke and refused to succumb to the pressures of he r tea. She knew there is only. There is only. There is only. With the cup leaning against her lip she refused to sip the bitter sap of dead leaves in fear of living too long under October skies while slipping leisurely into madness. Or despair. But that is no good reason to protest. No good excuse. She wore her hair loose. Her nails are chipped and painted mauve. She stares. With her back pressed against the chair. Resisting the persistence of the silence in the room, the elongation of her shadow, and the emptying of her cup. But there is only. There is only. And not enough. She knew. She yields to the darkening of the room. Shadows quickly disappear. And nothing is distinguishable. Except the colour of her hair.