A poet laid his pen down and slept.
His precious papers finally broke free and fluttered in the wind towards the one they were meant for.
A girl caught one poem and read it. Blushing, she smiled.
The poet missed the smile meant for him.
Dreaming wistfully, he still sleeps.
Squatting on the concrete near the gutter, she scrubbed steel plates.
She watched her son float newspaper boats down the grey, filthy waters, amidst soapy suds and clumps of hair.
One boat drowned, the other crashed on shards of glass.
She tried stopping the tears from her eyes in vain.
She slipped into the bathroom for a shower. He climbed off the bed, wiping the sweat off his forehead and smirked at himself in the mirror.
The only reflection he could see was hers.
He stumbled backwards, onto her closet. All of the skeletons came tumbling out.
Screaming, he ran.
Dressed in white, she waited for him on the stairs outside the church.
Her glass slippers were stained with wet mud and grass. One of the heels was chipped.
She saw him walking hand in hand with another girl whose lips were stained red.
Her white hand gripped the railing.