she carried just enough hope, a little too little memory and wish, cupped in the warmth of her hands in broken hours of lavender as her stomach quivered like the mountains that grounded her to a perpetual state of being, of what she's told to call "home".
moonlight and stars, waves and oceans have all been used up in other people's heartaches.
she missed the road, missed him, missed "the platonic love of new" not like constellations and ocean ripples, but like Kerouac's typewriter misses his caress.