Planted at a window sitting,
Annabel Lee’s character gazed,
searching for obscurity,
the hidden mirror beneath her fingertips.
And as the window began to dim in clarity and the outside world grew brighter,
Annabel Lee extended to hide her palm and remaining limbs beside her neck, wrapping her cold fingers around the remaining area of flesh,
accepting days passing of remaining unacknowledged,
filled in the swimming waves of her sitting heart.
Soon, time leaped and shades of gray passed her by,
hanging in the seasonal rain,
spots of ache from the twilight sea standing three blocks away.
And in the daytime as Annabel Lee kept quiet,
she became captivated and enthralled  in the unseen and braided world,
a curiosity that kept her body from blooming,
from peeling away the deeply scented perfume that remained underneath her skin.
But when fall approached and the leaves outside grew bright orange,
she followed the steps to her front door in assurance that she was only dreaming.
And when Annabel Lee began shaking and touching the doorknob for the first time thinking she didn’t know what she was searching for anymore and jumping in her skin whining that she wasn’t ready,
the door flew open and with lights touch her body was swept away,
and sweet Annabel Lee left behind every premature thought she had ever had.
She was only seventeen.