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She arrived on my doorstep looking for a place to stay.
I invited her in with her intellect, wit and sunset eyes.
She placed a broken bouquet on my table.
I paid little attention.

We were both writers. She more abstract than I.
Conversation flowed like a waterfall
And ideas exchanged like a burning inferno.
We fueled each other.

She began to write in riddles.
Riddles that had no answer.
She then began to speak in nonsensical riddles.
It began to distract me from my writing.

So distracted had I become that I asked her to leave.
She left without a word
Into a house of her own
With her broken bouquet.

She lived there alone.
Her friends would visit and soon leave,
Never to return.
Return to her brick wall riddles.

I imagine she is still writing
Her brick wall riddles.
With her broken bouquet
Always close by.

Her broken bouquet is heroin.