Her eyes peel back from a days rest…8 hours of rebuttling to only skip past the babbles when sunrise. Ink clouts the sky in place of the pink and blue hue it took upon last fall.
Water is an iv that taps into the salty veins while ropes levy around her head in times of dehydration and the hottest summer day. Her fingers scatter towards the mesh window locking in the exhausting heat. Here is when she wishes for winter to return his breaths of ease back through her respiratory.
…kicking rocks and switching socks has become the hobby of every hour, along with space to marinate thoughts that hardly ever swing by any more. Love is found in unrequited ways as that is the path passion takes for tales.
paperbacks no longer seem to scream enough to suck the hours possibly wasted in a rut of giggles and dry memos that never get through her map of a brain to be remembered the correct way. Although memorable they were never aware of escape routes in incidental beads she left on her neck presented as tests to challenge each moral looked over.
And here she sits. Shades of black peeling the edges of thick fingernails coated in feelings not one can decode. She's misplaced her paper, and is sure to tuck her pen. Receiving revival needed to run the race. Her race. The uncompleted phrase. The 300 paged life living within her,dusted and patient it remains…
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