Paper white flakes fall to the bare asphalt.
Wind rolls through the alley,
icy tendrils on a chilly November night.
The night is silent, fast asleep in the arms of winter.
Violet walks as close to the side of the wall as possible, her shoulder
scraping against the rough brick.
Her arms are folded tightly across her chest,
a barricade against the cold.
Her teeth chatter, the excessive clicking of a retractable pen.
She stops and waits, fists clenched against her chest.
Her fingers fall, grazing her tiny belly.
Her tiny belly, not watermelon size,
no longer growing life.
Tiny, empty, void of life.
A soft sob falls from her quivering lips,
only to be silenced by the snap of
her teeth.
Violet keeps walking.