She's** the most alive, when it's two.
Pl­anning for things, she won't grip.
Writing drafts, she won't speak.
Paper and ink, her only sidekicks.

She's the most alive, when it's­ two.
Laying, grieving, contemplating.
A war between her aching heart,
a war between her craving brain.

She's the most alive, when it's  ­two.
Ecstatic and melancholy, the two extremes.
Scribing something she won't think.
A smooth verse of her insomnia.


n.e