Miscommunication

Her skin wore the dust like an evening gown, sheathed and layered on like satin. Sleep didn’t come for her most nights. Her bones were like dead pieces of oak, cracked and moth bitten. Her hair was like straw, golden, frayed and laid about on the ground, absent a scalp. There she sat, in her chair, wondering where life went, where’d it run off to. Did she blink too slowly? Did time stop? There she sat, waiting, longing, as her blood turned to iron, she sat waiting for life to come. Only, it was just upon her threshold, in the concrete, the asphalt, the grass, the birds. It was in between the spaces of the stars and inside the gap of time and space. There it was waiting for her. Waiting for her to jump and frolic and skip towards it. It waited there, at the corner of her eye, at the edge of the water, inside the narrow valleys and worn out streams. It waited and longed for her to appear, to cease the nonsense of existing and to begin living.