He's thinking about
His book.
And how he's going to write her into it.
She's a shelf that doesn't hold anything
But a few memories here and there
And some day dreams.
Her eyes sting
And her voice just sort of floats above everything else.
Like a sheet of clouds on a hot July morning.
There's really no place to acknowledge a power so fierce
Using just the ink from a couple of pens.
But he's going to try to capture the way her lungs give out
During long drives down busy highways
And her dark glasses always seem to be locked forward.
Her toes curl in her flip-flops
And she never opens her mouth too wide.
How can words describe someone
That only the pounding of a heart can imagine?