Pictures of clothes, hanging individually,
along strands of thread connected
diagonally across the room.
A clock warns her of morning soon
but malfunctions into static and it bursts.
The time has always been her curse
never agreeing with how she felt about her
falling.
The moon waned in a way that looked
painful to her. The narrow gaps between
her blinds, her only doorway into space.
She hated the scars that covered his face,
and the arrogant way he told her
not to worry.
Watching from the balcony she saw him
toss match after match, burning bright,
into the dirt. Looking up at her
only when she was wearing a skirt.
It should have felt worse but it no longer hurt.
She walked out under the streetlights
and she vanished.
Teleporting Typewriter 