she sits with a spine gone soft

draped in white

dark chestnut hair in a neat knot

lace blooms around her neck

as flowers do from her palm

her right holds a single bud

to her left a bouquet

soft like the spine

wilted with resignation

garlands strung behind her

bursting with roses

like an abandoned party

Holding on to singularity,

While clutching desperately to connection.

With longing too, I wait.