I took the old woman's mouth, sagging and frayed, torn from the face of the person it once was, and with shaking hands I tied that mouth to the corners of my window. A grimace stretched between two hooks, a tongue lolling around at the back; searching for something but finding only dirty glass.
The skin around the craggy mouth bleached and faded to nothing. A white flag; an admission of defeat. I hoped you would see it from the garden and come back: it was all I had.
I waited a long time and the lips discoloured in the sunshine; a grey mould grew up from the bottom - the place where the chin would have begun - in delicate patterns. The wiry moustache, perched like a bird above that hole of a mouth, bristled in the breeze (it was waving to you) and the very same draft that escaped the crack in the wood whistled through the room.