147 E. Acacia Ave

She sits on the top steps past decaying grass and nature about her.
Grime covered railings are
untouchable,
unbearable,
unacceptable.

Sitting by her side is a tearing leather bag, ripped at the chains.
Between skinny fingers and small, innocent, rings
was a nicotine infused stick -- smoke lifting in fragile strings.

Such beauty, such apathy.
Something she should never experience
in such a young and delicate life.

There she sits, charcoal black hair so long that it rest beside her
upon disgusting grounds where millions of dirtied feet
have walked on.

Before her a little girl runs to and fro, one brandished in a silhouette.
Such life,
strength,
curiosity,
innocence.

On the bottom step was a withering old man sitting in the same position
as the woman on the top.

He lifted his hand, bringing the cigarette to his lips
at the same time
she did as well.

"Be careful, sweetheart,"
he says with a gorgeous eye smile that is hard to be seen
under mountains of wrinkles.

"Okay!"
the little child squeaks in return.

And just like that, both apparitions disperse
before the beauty on the top step rises to her full yet petite height.
A breath exotically leaves her tongue,
masses of hazel in her eyes closing with serenity.
She turns on her heel, staring at the black gates with a bout of sincerity
when seeing a woman now hammered by the ways of life
standing there.

Frail palms place against the grime ridden gate, pushing it open from the inside.
Spectacles are picked up while easing onto the beauty
of those dead eyes.

"How can I help you, sweetheart?"
The amnesiac individual crowed.

"Is this 147 East Acacia Avenue?"

"Yes."

"May I come in?"

"Why, I don't let any stranger come through these doors unless they have reason."

There was a slight pause as the beauty dropped her cigarette
and expressed a flash of exotic white teeth,
"I'm no stranger. This is uh..."
her hazel eyes brim while reminiscing in a place
long forgotten,
"This is my home."