There is so little left
in hair, done up limp
made up plainly—and a
fey expression peeking
from behind flat bangs.
The plaintive refrain of
bombs dropped carrying
heart shapes meaning
something indistinguishable,
and the pleading goes on
but quietly, and only if one's
willing to listen. Move quicker
pitch unperturbed, but is
noticeable from the silence
of red letters in corner
spelt something terrible
and familiar both.
