She walks alone,
leaving a trail of red,
blood that melts the snow,
her only color comes from her wounds,
redder then the roses that trail the alley.
left alone with no one to turn to,
the pistol is waiting,
under her neatly folded clothes,
her clothes are bright,
from when she was happy,
when he was sharing her bed.
She walks up the stairs,
and turns the knob,
the pistol is waiting,
as she opens the drawer,
memories fill her mind,
she raises it to her head,
an echo is heard.
He opens the door,
an apology at hand,
to find her,
redder then before.
