Like her, the park is lonely and the air is sick. It smells of stale roses and untreated promises; and the swing on which she sits squeaks a song so pathetically sad it almost makes time stop — and time, like some humans, knows less when it’s better to instead tread quickly.
The grass below is wet with dew, as are her fingers which she continually bring to her face to wipe away the watery signs of fragility and brokenness. From somewhere far, a beautiful sparrow descends and stops right where she sits, to fly to and fro. Distracted by the sudden chirrup, she looks at her new companion and smiles.
“Will you stay, birdie?” she asks — only to remember soon after that wings always fly…
Written in response to today’s prose-poetry prompt: “fingers” (also goes for “cut off“)