The Stolen Part

And so with a dilusional despair came the supposedly greatest idea.

Outside there was mizzling and a few droplets, just like tiny tears, were falling down her trembling hands. 
Only, they had already stopped quivering.

She stared at the very top of the building, pouring rain leaking from the ceiling.

A distant violin sound remained in her mind, the echo flowing in small circles resembling the deepest suffering. An uncertain fever had arisen from the constant victimization of the alter ego.

She wouldn’t jump but thought of it fondly.

The stove was turned off, since the lady had thought it didn’t need to warm the apartment. A grey mist slipped through the barely opened window and a teapot was boiling in the kitchen.

Maybe after all she did have cold feet. But wasn’t actually in the mood to admit it just yet.

Instead, she began writing about the rainstorm and the chaos bursting like laughter from inside of her.

Another day, another moment with a lonely troubled soul.

The lady felt sick, but nonetheless offered her friend the abandon a crooked smile.

She kept her eyes fixed on the paper, never leaving the awareness of the soothing melody of the bad weather.

But as soon as the woman finished some paragraph, she discerned the teapot wasn’t boiling anymore.

She wasn’t on her own.

She never truly was.