Your green corded jumper.
Hair down to your shoulders.
Pure white of your eyes supporting the small, black pupils, that move your attention with ease,
You show that you are listening and so they listen back.
A cigarette loosely hangs between your fore and middle fingers, as though it were attached.
Those fingers are already turning yellow and hardening at the tips.
These are nearly all I recognise.
Your eyes lazily sit on the bottom lid of the drooping, darkening bags that hold your worry's.
The pure white that supported your small, black attention is now a broken red.
A belly bulges beneath the moth bitten corded jumper.
Nobody is listening,
You have nothing left to tell.
