Poetry

Little lonesome girl
didn't know
she was cold
untill he came
like an open flame.

Warm against cold
they created steam
and he washed her
like soap, all clean.

But then
he left
in the fog.
She couldn't see.
It was
too thick,
and,
all too sudden,
like the steam
was for
the sick.

She was
doused in it,
blinded by it.
It didn't clear
when she wiped
at the mirror.
She wasn't there.
It was a stranger to scare.

Steam still present,
she collapsed in it,
and inhaled it's bitter scent.