Huddled, somewhat, she sits in her cold home, her skin so thin the grey shows through, and angular fingers feel across the plate for the last cheap biscuit to dip into her tea, and she shifts to change her weight to make the pain a little less, but the pain of grinding loneliness is only eased when in her sleep she dips fragmentally into laughter with rosey cheeks and skipping in the sun and loving of long ago.
She wakes, and if all her tears had not run out, comfortless she would cry again
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