The Sky

The sky is a patchwork of blue and white,
free patterns as haphazard as life.
She tumbles over bitter words, stop
mid sentence and bite her lower lip.
The chair creaks under her weight
as her head turns toward the sun,
her eyes ready for a cliche.
I can only speak of the separation
of day and night, of the moon
that shines but has no light,
and that her existence
is not an illusion but a life.
Then she looks at the sky,
a patchwork of blue and white,
free patterns as haphazard as her life.