On Losing A Strand of Pearls

Things were starting to get too plastic for me--

sharp edges and such

too many pauses in conversation for all the wrong reasons

Apparently curiosity had killed everything but the cat--

he lingered in the corner of the room and reeked of maple syrup and dying lilies

It was all so repulsive--

and the yellow stained corsets and linens that had been existing on borrowed time

The death of glamour was so predictable--

the passing of these decades and the slow death of the bobbed girl was almost too much to bear

When it all came down to it--

I was aging with the best of them--

yellowing, painstakingly trying to prevent the derivative nature of crow's feet

The sun was setting in one window--

the moon rising in the other--

and all I wanted was my pillow, firm, steadfast in its ability to change my mind