Dark Brown

She lay there, almost central to the room,
on a ragged red rug, feet towards the kitchen.
There was little furniture, it wasn't needed,
just a dead Ikea sofa for her friends.
They floated around her in a different time;
it was how it was, was how she wanted it.
Her friends were so close to her.
She had no concept of just how many had been close to her,
but she did know that she was naked from the waist.
Her arms didn't move, her legs couldn't move.
unless they were moved.
All she felt was within.
She was aware of them close to her.
She was at home when inside herself,
warm, safe, free;
free from thoughts outside of this world.
She stared at the ceiling, its white stillness.
Its still whiteness.
It was a fresh clean canvas for her thoughts.
Where she saw and imagined.
It was familiar to her.
The periphery of her vision was the place for her friends,
they were now a part of the suite, they blended comfortably, suitably;  
equally as motionless as her; as still, benign, tranquil.
One friend she knew well, he was smoothly acceptable,
he covered her lower half with a sleeping bag.
She had shit herself.
The warm cocoon of her inner feeling took her back to the ceiling.
Other friends who she did not know came through the door that afternoon,
many friends visited the house,
their mouths moved but they did not speak,
all that came forth was a slow, drawn, low growl.
That was OK, others would know, she was with friends.
They too moved around her in another dimension,
those in her realm did not share it with her,
they shared only their morph with the sofa.
They came and they went.
When all was silent her comforting blanket of emotion ebbed
There was a coolness in some parts of her body.
Those parts began to return to her,
they hurt, they didn't feel nice.
She grew colder, more uncomfortable, no more feelings to give herself to,
without the strength to panic or the will to contest.
She closed her eyes.
She died.