Her face appeared to be broken
from age old concrete.
A life that spanned generations
reduced to a plastic bag
slowly dripping lunch in
the form of liquid memories,
each splash, each breath,
taking one more sepia image away.

Her lucid glare moved without effort
from the monitored hourglass
to a tilted frame hanging on the wall.
Her eyes met a younger shell of herself,
the stare seemed to dissect a dimension
only known to the half-living.
Each breath excruciating, as a slow
deliberated move in a chess match.

Her ice blue eyes, oddly clashing
with her ghostly skin, close tensely
as she parts her lips and lays
her hands, palm down, onto the pillow top
mattress. Awaking again only
to blow the image of herself one last
kiss before exhaling and watching
the last drop fall from the tube.

Checkmate.

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