Wait

Lying in wait, skin broken, bones bruised, blue moons haunt my open black skies. The flutter of a breeze brushes against my cheek, and I know somewhere vultures are gathering in shadows where the sacred seven flies. Seven. A most unlucky number. Broken years for each shard of glass that litters my floor. I saw my reflection once, perched on a cliff, and as it charged, I splintered into darkness and salt. Waves washed up the pieces, and my face returned to sand. Now I just sit hugging the base of a cliff, waiting for vultures or the tide’s helping hand.