She sits there, silent, still.
Lips gently pursed and hands neatly folded on her lap.still.
I can’t see even the most gentle flutter of eyelashes yet I sense her breath
It whispers to me. Cracked and laboured, her gaze fixed.
And as she stares out, watching the world move around her, I wonder who or what she is waiting for.
I ponder her past, the tears she’s cried, tears she’s dried and I wonder about her lovers, her one true love and the ones that got away. She must have seen it all.
Her hollow eyes are brimming with memories past
And how now she sits patiently waiting, open and raw in her aged wisdom. And I wonder…