An organ of fancy, it believes too much and forgets too little.
In a city south of the metro, a writer wields her pen in a flurry of gossamer wings.
She looks for words to hide behind, as though scrambling for clothes.
But she fails to find the right ones. So she buys a ticket to dreamland ---
"What keeps us alive within these walls of blood and bone is the promise of sleep. Ergo, the momentary forgetting of words than wound."--- and promptly misses the flight.
Resigned, she picks up her pen
and disappears into the grain and grind
against words elusive.
After fighting off the urge
to hurl her phone at the face
of her slumbering lover.
---
Gin Blossoms.
