she's holding her pen like she does her tongue

drawn back,

poised for the pleasure of letting

the ink drip to the ground

and she bathes in its dark puddles

(where abstract meets sense,

where mind and soul meet the body that plummets to solid earth)



she opens like a well-read book

but buries secrets in gold between tired lines

charmed treasure

(x marks the spot)



she's staring at walls

that are oh so elegantly covered

with quotes

with buildings

with trees, with skies

with flowers and beaches

with faces she will never see again.

(but she knows how lucky she is to have seen them atleast that once,

atleast that one last time)



she leads the way

up trodden paths

to moon rocks and city lights

(and wonders how one can possibly feel more alive,

can enhance their only existence)



she's dreaming, as always

a glaze in her eyes

hoping, waiting, contemplating

feels bare,

feels that everyone can see the trip in her head

(she's naked, but laughing

because they see her in clothes.)