Mila

what's left of Mila, she laughs oddly dumb, says she'll be a gonna, knows it's stupid to lie. just the line she hums, never figures out the timing, what about that offer, she drinks a little Rum, smokes rollups to follow, won't issue any more sighs, children late for school, skirt what's on the line, you might call her callow, more like a beaten drum, a candle's fading tallow, a winter's morning light. a decision beyond the ruins, its the strangest sight, to see beyond serfdom.