she stands at the counter

she stands at the counter, and i cannot breathe.

she stands at the counter, holding a day-old cup of orange juice. the lipstick stains on the rim are smudged.

her shirt - well, mine - has seen better days. it's prime expired years ago, and yet somehow still has a home here as pyjamas.

her hair is sticking out to the left, and her grey nail polish is chipped, and she must've been too lazy to put in her contacts because she's got her old glasses on,

and she stands at the counter, watching the robins fly by outside and likely thinking of nothing,

and i cannot breathe.