Warm Do wncast Hurt

in queue
underneath the banister
motion quickens
tearing past the opal
volumes of books roll up her spine
tangled up in those curls
ribbons of ink pressed skin
does she bother?
shaking herself to sleep
with a fear of falling
so deep and ethereal
but semi conscious
a torrent of arrow heads
liquid dew off the ledge
of despair
downcast hurt
lining the bridge of her nape
from hell and high waters
to a fascination of her bookshelf
a quarry of words that became
everything she would need to say
quiet through the noise
pale silk
bruised legs
but no alcohol

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