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