A Thrown Umbrella

I imagine a girl
Standing in an old
Hot pink romper
Tied simply on
The back of her neck
Plain faced and glassy eyed
Watching intently an
All-American house
The fabric along her stomach
Stretches with each breathe
Becoming more frequent
Up-down-up-down
Shadowed by an over hanging
Faded black umbrella gripped
By olive tinted hands
The sun beats down over head
Crisping all that lives-unable
To pierce the fabric of the
Umbrella-
What is in one tick of the
Clock?
She did whisper the thought
Despite herself and the fierce
Rays of the sun
The umbrella is thrown into the dirt
Cautiously, a foot is lifted
A steady walk up the
Doorstep of the brown bricked house
Resting both uneasy hands upon the
Handle
Turning, opening, entering
Welcomed by a rush...
The tenderness of flesh
The softness of a kiss
Surrounding the girl
Like a whirlpool, whipping
Her in circles
The wind sounding loudly in
Her ears ringing them with
Broken pieces and promises
Hallow feelings
Zipping her down the front, exposing-
The insides if her
Every inch
Every thought
every little detail that made formed her soul
Ripped out of her flimsy skin
Disappearing
As a minute hand Moves from three to four
Gone-
Sobbing she searches- only to find nothing
Of herself
Lively brown eyes dull under their lashes...
What is in one tick of the clock?
She whispered
Emptiness