A man thrashed and turned in a sweat-stained bed,
unable to find solace within the twisting tendrils of the sheets.
He lied back, and sighed, staring into the tightly drawn curtains.
He could not sleep knowing what once stood beyond that velvet barrier.
...
...
He had first seen her on a balmy August night,
as he threw open the curtains to welcome a chilled evening wind.
She stood on the balcony, head cocked in an angle of curiosity.
She was barefoot in an angel-white dress, with tumbling black curls.
She was standing behind the glass door,
nose nearly pressing against it, staring intently at him.
After he recovered from a startled tumble,
he sat on the floor staring into her eyes:
as green and sharp as finely cut emeralds.
He attempted to open the door, to let her in from the cold,
but she held the door firmly closed.
He attempted to ask if she needed help,
but all his questions were met with a blank stare.
He called the police, and met them outside,
only to have them point confused at the vacant balcony.
He was surprised, but relieved, and returned to his bed.
The next night, as he parted the curtains, she was again at the door.
Red-faced, he shook his fists; he screamed at her to leave.
She just stood, staring with soulless, verdant orbs.
He pounded the glass with desperation,
the glass cracked under the force.
That’s when she screamed, either in shock or pain.
He looked up, to see blood running down her face.
The wounds bled in line with the cracks in the pane.
He stood back as the cracks grew across the glass-- across her.
The blood drenched her once angelic dress, now dyed a dark crimson.
Her howling reached a crescendo, as fissures filled the frame.
And all at once it--she, shattered, sending sparkling shards cascading across the floor,
the moonlight dancing off her shimmering remains.
He stood in trembling silence, staring at the empty balcony.
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