she speaks with the dusty voice of an insomniac,
with the wisdom of one hundred and one books
read under the covers using a flashlight,
with flecks of gold scattered across her skin.
her eyes see colors of the dark,
the majestic blues that cloud the earth’s senses
the deep purples that shadow the night’s sky,
but never black.
black does not exist.
she hears whispers in the walls
in her curly hair and on her fingertips
but if she closes her eyes for just one minute
it all shatters into glass.
glass, glass, glass
glassy eyes and hand blown candle holders
the ones that stand on her bedside
like sentries that keep her company in her night’s watch.
watches and clocks
tic tok, tic tok,
but her mind never wavers
her heart never stops.
stops. which is the stopping point?
the sun awakening or the moon
winking over the horizon
like kisses that taste of tangy petrichor.
petrichor. the smell of dust after the rain.
is that what her voice tastes like?
the starched pages of her notebook grow heavy
with ink and lead and bulky thoughts.
she looks into the mirror
and tries to see what they all see,
but she only spies those eyes, the eyes that know
those eyes that see dark colors and perceive the shapes of thoughts.
the doorways to her mind,
if anyone cared to really look.
those big eyes that see in the dark
that see into words and ideas and that dig so deep
those owl eyes that refuse to close.
(don’t let them close.
if you do, you’ll jump.)