She’s forgotten to eat again. But always remembers to drink.
Ink tastes different from the page than from the pen.
She writes backwards cursive on the mirror with
the sharpened point of dying caterpillars. Incantations to the
one-eyed jack. Love letters to the queen. Her smile
is the only thing you can’t see through.
Between you and her, she’s a little worried that the rabbit
is late in every sense of the word. Wound too tightly, that one.
One small poke in the ribs. Tick and boom. Her ears
still peal from that trick. It’s her unbirthday yesterday.
She’s writing the end of this world. Or the beginning of the next.
In all of them, she grows smaller and smaller,
as a girl alone walking up a spiral stair is first a girl in a blue dress
and then a faroff fuzz of blonde and then a rememory
of someone you might have loved, once,
if you’d had all her worlds and time.
Image: Taken with iPhone.
Words written while listening to good music and the swing of traffic.
Time Taken 6 minutes?
Brain on work. I have lots.