Scattered things along the table:
An old withered globe of lands long forgotten.
Scattered sheets of instructive paper.
A bag of half eaten blueberries that were always her favorite.
Pencils dropped and itching for a good draw or long write.
The lamp is burning, but does so happily.
A crumbled paper that whispers "ALL ALONE IN THIS"
A firm twisted holiday ribbon cries itself to sleep, for the lack thereof of attention.
Two old cards, blank and forgotten.
The phone is flipped over, though she knows she has a message waiting for her on the other side.
She wonders what they are for, the letters I mean.
The keys are hard to type with, though they make her happy.
The way they "click click" and "stick" bring her joy.
Her eyes wander about the room in search for something to write about.
The window is always a good place to start.
Then again, so is the slightly ajar closet that screeches for attention.
The door is also open, though it strikes no interest in her.
Small voices travel through the room in a gentle hum.
Sometimes, she silently cries, but always finds her comfort in this room.
A precious movie ticket sleeps in her pocket.
Her leg is always falling asleep.
And now she has to leave.
A stack of books threaten to tempt her, to consume her and to lull her to sleep in a gentle rush.
She comes back.
The dog's asleep, as she wishes she someday could be.
The lights are hushed.
The house is still.
She caught the bright stars tonight, and wished that she could see them.
This love affair between them was never going to last.
But she wished it could.
The music slumbers 'til the sunrise.
She cries herself to sleep.
The bed is stuffy, choking her in mid-dream.
The dream catcher has failed her as of late and she desperately wishes it wouldn't.
She kicks, claws and wills herself to cry.
The tears never come.
The alarm clock stays silent.
Her clouds are slipping now.
The books upon her self are dusting, begging for release.
A long forgotten sketch book, some paints and old journal rest on top the basket.
She aches for solitude.
The woods are calling her, but not loud enough to tempt her.
The Autumn had deceived her.
She misses her old dreams.
To run.
To climb.
To sing a dreadful song.
Her memories now are failing her, she rushes in the dark.
A man, her lover, waits for her.
She knows he isn't far.
The eyes.
The lips.
Her very soul.
He wants to keep her close.
She cries again, and leaves him lost.
They quest their separate ways.
The swirling steam of on old rusty train brings hope and faith at last.
New life, more purpose is what calls her name again.
An old wooden desk, worn from ache and sorrow, remains her only friend.
The paper, the pen, the withered globe are always there to stay.
They greet with smiles, though they mean no harm.
Her eyes will wander once again.
The window is shut.
The curtains are drawn.
She's gone her separate way.
Another tear she wipes away.
Another friend she makes in words, for she knows they will never betray her.
Her dear sister laughs a sweet laugh from the corner.
She runs her fingers through her hair.
Two dolls, alone but not forgotten, sleep and slumber in utter bliss.
The lamp still burns, most happily.
The dust still dances on the keys, sticking to her words.
The books.
The clock.
Forgotten things.
She finds her way again.
(k.b.)
November 30th, 2013
Friday Night at 10:40PM
On a night full of bright stars she wished
she could watch.
