Even spiders die with love.

Arachne dangles in the afternoon sunlight, suspended in the transition of the smoky sunlit haze to the long awaited dampening. Pools reflecting city street lights catch my eye out the kitchen window. Here we remain shielded from the swift shift in time. As the cadence begins, damp air leaks in through the screen, tickling my skin. The hairs on my arms raise to admit surrender and point blame. With a transient glace I catch her in the early stages, constructing a translucent veil. The process is personal and loving. My eye's are trespassing as is she.

I belong in the shadow of the room, silent and watching as they go about their lives. Cars pass by with haste and none of them stop at the sign. Inside the blood in my veins slows and begins dragging in reverse to shadows, of harsh winter storms, poverty, the never ending lack of blankets, and depression. I don't miss depression, but when I was depressed I never missed reality. Everything is so vivid here. The painful things don't sting any more, but everything else is in bright harsh color that often makes me want to throw up rainbows and curl back into my imagination. That's how I got here to this room with the family that keeps me warm, but I don't belong here. I am silent. I feel forgotten but she is not.
I glance again at the veil, and entangled in her own art she struggles. Again I am trespassing. The struggle is more private than the creation. Time slows then speeds up again. She doesn't fidget any longer. She is the final ornament to the lace sculpture, and now hangs in content as if life's passing is just another one of life's intimate moments. Indeed she seems to whisper that I can now feel the way she feels too.