She is a clear vibration of a violin string tight with tension, shivering in song, singing in pain.

She is a dustmote dancing in the dusk sparkling in dullness, joyful even at the end.

She is the warmth of an old flannel blanket passed down through generations until it's softer than a kiss.

She is the shine of a lucky penny in your pocket.

She is the cool of a breeze in summer sweat.

She is class.
She is kindness.

She is the Singing One.
She is my friend.

7 am light, flowing past curtains,
Turning every dustmote suspended in thick, warm, indoor air
Into imploding stars.
Heavy-lidded dreams disrupted. Quiet.
They hide away, able-footed, into the soft crevices of the unconsciousness.
Turn to the other
Unoccupied side

Then 8. Tears dry into flakes.
A crumpled morning beneath a crumpled blanket nursing a crumpled soul.
De-crease your bad energy,
Control it, don’t let it get
The best of you. Boo-hoo.
Get dressed, clean, the daily routine, you know the drill.
Go.

With a push she sits up,
The pain inside her stomach hardens into diamonds. Her gaze
Travels through air, through space, through the window, glass, through
Millions of soundless, weightless miles

She turns to look at the sun.