a/n : inspired by a myriad of songs and other general three a.m. thoughts


Ingénue

she lives for that hot summer country- fresh rain

and what she loves, is ennui, at six p.m., on a Sunday afternoon,

the lilting speech, of the wind chimes, anchoring her thoughts,

and the deliciously simple comfort, that comes, from wearing old sweats

for her loved ones, in whispers, she plants promises,

in secrets, she seeks purchase,

and anyone can tell; she's alive and awake

she lived to experience life

she and another, her mother,

lived with her, and they coexisted,

harmoniously, most of the time, when it was quiet, drawing strength from each other,

in the incense, from china, on the marble countertop,

and between sweet- pea scented jersey sheets, in her room, on her queen-sized bed,

and through the music, in the expensive car, while driving downtown,

or maybe not; it wasn't always quiet; it could've been loud

maybe it was deafening

they just don't know

straight lines were once

dreamt from a squiggle, in the sky,

and that splash of purple, meshed with

an indigo, colors somewhere this side of infinity

and it plays a melody, pleadingly raw,

fighting for dominance, it permeates the heavy staccato bass like punctuation,

played by, her purple guitar, on the stand, in the far right corner,

like rhythm, interspersing pulses throughout her life,

and her body, which then changes, her direction,

the television, in the living room, disrupting her introspection

and she falters, for a fraction, of a second

to know her, seek and you shall find

in the lines, of each stanza, in this poem.

on trying to understand her, don't waste your time

cause you've blinked and now she's gone

this is wrong

go directly to jail, do not pass go—do not collect two hundred

I repeat- do not collect


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