She’s been there for a few hours now, this ancient lady who lives across from me. Her face is so pale and her eyes are open only slightly. If you were to see her, you would mistake her for being not alive. But she breathes so deeply every so often, as though she wanted to preserve the scent of a world she has lost. She is a picture. Outside, there is life unfolding. The ancient woman looks at a landscape she does not recognize. Her home is surrounded by strangers and she is a cracked vase. I am tempted to leave her a fresh rose, so that she may kiss its colour back into herself.
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