About Her and Her Reflections On Alone.
She washed her hands, carefully, so as not to remove too many memories, and the basin made
of porcelain must have held his fingers, somewhere...
She appeared to herself~hair piled above her head, curls escaping across alabaster
cheeks~alone...
There were screams on the inside of telephone rings and the voices of hello did not seem
to understand despair...
Neither did she, really, or her battles would have been won, maybe she would have never
had to have fought at all....
She remembered exactly the dates they had kissed, lips forming lines that resembled
happiness...
something she had once sketched when all the lights were out.
Would he know, would he listen, if he touched her palm now, if he lay it against his
heartbeat, if he closed his eyes and whispered the intentions of his rhythm...
would he know she belonged to him?
Reflections are silly upon the moment she dries tears, and memories are those best left
forgotten as the soap that sits upon a pedestal sink rinses away yesterday when she
touched his smile...
when she felt his intentions,
when her hands were held in sleep.
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