It's 4:08 pm.
The room is silent
Except for her breathing;
Steady,
Slow,
And slightly forced.
The window is open
And outside the sky is
Blue
And the sun is
Golden
And everything is peaceful
Out there,
But in here,
It's cold
And with every breath
Comes a tangible dread.
The trees blow with a gentle wind
And everything
Looks its most vibrant color
Except for her face,
Her white, white face,
With that odd yellow undertone.
My eyes are red and raw,
And she takes her last breath,
And every living thing
Holds still,
Because it's 4:08,
And nothing's living when she's gone.