Crumbling and wilting,
leaves fallen orange and flowers die but this is not a funeral but a celebration of life and potential and the forthcoming of new seasons.
This is winter.

She cries.
Not tears of sorrow, or loneliness.
She cries the pure essence of pain,
like some ****** extract of the harsh reality of life.
Her eyes are opened and with each blink she pops the bubble we live within,
beyond her years in sadness and hurt and beyond her beauty in hatred.

She smiles.
Not laughter from jokes, or satisfaction.
She smiles the broken fragments of hope and dreams,
each curve of her lips pressing the shards deeper into her skin as it rips open and the feelings she keeps under lock and key spill out,
dripping sweet red desperation onto already blood stained sheets,
and imagines a world where her eyes were not opened to what life really has to offer.

In that fleeting moment
when the dusk of the past drifts
and I see unclouded
my brain wanders and clears
wondering why I ever felt the way I do.
But like any day
any hour or minute,
things change and the descending of my mind's mist is inevitable,
so I savour the moment
and the capture the image of what the world means to be beautiful,
before the fog settles and I'm lost in the darkness once more.

I call out your name,
"Game over!" I cry, "I can't find you! You win!"
But you don't appear with a laugh like when we were children. Of course you don't. This isn't a game of hide and seek. My head spins but my eyes do not stray as I pour the same brand of semi-skimmed milk onto the same whole grain cereal in the same chipped, pottery bowl I did 20 years ago when you sat across from me at the same hard oak table when you told me "Let's get married!". And so we did. Your mother was the priest and your face was bright with youth as you slide that tacky plastic ring from the corner shop onto my finger and kissed my cheek. But this isn't then, and you aren't him. So when I call out "Game Over!" you don't run out from the bushes, knees covered in mud and a smile like starlight on your face. When I take your hand and whisper "I can't find you." you don't respond. You never do, not even a flicker of movement in that once bright eyed face. The only answer I receive is the steady beep of your heart monitor, and the assurance in my mind that indeed, I can't find you any more. So as I slip that old, worn down tacky plastic ring from the corner shop onto your finger and kiss your cheek, I smile softly; my last goodbye. "Game over! I can't find you! You win!" And I turn and nod to the nurse, her eyes sunken with the burden of her job. "Switch him off" I whisper "Game over."

Scratch away the old skin that peels and flakes like old books and watch as I am reborn, new cells grow and my wings open, basking in the sun as they fill with blood, ready to take flight. I am the inevitable oncoming of new beginnings, fresh experiences and growth and all that I need is to shed my faded outer layer and begin to blossom into the daydream outline of the girl I want to be.

my breathing slows
  inhale
  exhale
as i try to figure out where i went wrong
  inhale
  exhale
while my brain spins every tragic tale of a love story broken
  inhale
  exhale
then it stops altogether
and it fades
  black