elise.writer

and i'm sitting here,
gnawing my nails to thin pink brittle
twisting a stolen colored pencil with each finger,
one at a time, muscles twitching
to reach some distant mountain scape from my dreams

The frowned-upon coffee stain on your favorite sweater
The stamp of the all-too bright winter sun pressed to your eyelids
The sharp sliver under your curling crimson fingernail

If you close your eyes,
you'll feel the wind in your hair,
palms clinging to the peeling metal paint,
pushing your weightless body into the sky,
floating out the sunroof,
as your heart pulses to the beat of