She has come to rest in the corner of my room.
With dust covering her body like a white film, it catches my eye.
A ghost in the dark.
In the dead of night, I will hear her moan out;
A plea to feel the rush
Of fingers upon her keys.
The strings have long rusted,
And the keys would stick if I dreamt of playing again.
A thick wet heat in the air has decayed her perfect body.
She rots in the corner of my room.
A valley stretches through her side, spreading day to day,
While tiny dust spiders create homes in her gaping wounds.
Jaundice has coated itself over her once ivory bones,
And a whisper of death has wrapped himself around her,
Like a sheet that I never covered her in.
Shame weighs heavy on my back.
A burlap sack filled with all of her broken-down parts,
Scars the skin on my shoulder.
Now, the halls are silent,
And there is not one dream of love
To whisper into the night.
