There is a girl made of peeled paint
Pale desert sand, she likes to think
Of pepper without the spice and that
ringing from sound-becomes-silence
The smell of smoke, too thick of it
Lined paper crumpled beyond
the allure of possibility
She lives within vast rooms with low doors
Light dozing off towards shadows
Dust held without breath
Never touched her but she's drowning in it
She hears with her feet
Feels with her eyes
Sees drowsy things
of grit and splinters of ice
Come again with the rhythm of an orbit
She is unsure how to cry
Waiting, floats, waiting for
someone
to smooth the paper
blow away the smoke
splash red paint against the drowning dust
scream with a voice of rain
Light of a match, clash of cymbals
Pull her to her feet with hands wrapped about wrists
And set her lungs breathing again
