No. 18

I stand and I stare at a girl named Sinclair whose sight was dull, and whose heart felt cold.

I pondered still, could she have given me more than just a one night stand? Her eyeliner, smudged by the imagery of her life, swept back at the speed of pain.

She had a broken nose, a bruised up lip and chipped bitten nails as red as her dress

It may be a somber thought, but would have she allowed me to blush her bruises or cover her cuts?

Her ripped up stockings and a torn up bra is what she wore, a frivolous attempt to stand out from the rest of these whores.

I would have undressed her for far more than just lust.

Perhaps she might have even felt my love for her, a chemical affinity abundant enough to over spill her every sweat filled pore, flooding even the canyon like creases of her sheets

Would such a love have risen higher than heaven, or would it have fallen lower than hell? I suppose that we will never know, for she flows as it shows that down the drain and beyond the crevasses of her thoughts, my dreams will rot.

Sadly enough the clock strikes ten and a mortician is not paid overtime for admiring the dead.