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.)
© AlyssiaAnderson
Awkward reactions encouraged.