Passing from her garden of sorrow
she treks across a field of loneliness,
wrapped in her trench coat of pity.
The wind whips at her hair
and her only thoughts are of him.
Perfume from flowers of aggressiveness
give her an out-of-character confidence.
She will speak to him this time.
Her thoughts turn to fantasies.

She feels his fingers gently curl about her hand as he presents her his ring of love.

Impossible, she sighs to herself.
If only she could lie with him even in death's numbness.
To her it would be a grave of happiness.