Hanging on corners.

Once again, she walks into her room, fragile, yet solid to the core. Puts her bags down, sits on her bed. A yellow tinge floats in through her window, the sun setting behind the rest of the buildings.
She could be a little more bitter than sweet perhaps, but that's not something she really wants. The paints lie flat on her table, the canvas, starch white. Something to be filled, something to be made colourful.
Something needed to be said she knew, yet nothing came out, 'cause maybe it wouldn't have been anything right. Or it could have been that she wanted you to say something. Or... it could have been so many other things at the same time. Thing is, she didn't say it.
Maybe somehow sorry yet somehow sad, her heart wrenches at the thought of you hurting more than her. It's taking a little more than hanging her clothes up. As her brush filled with orange yellow touches the canvas, she prays that maybe somehow, someway, someday will find you back.