Letters That Hold for Ransom

When her body wakes in the arms of a stanza, on her nightstand
the pages scream wildly (sometimes they whisper with love,
but not tonight): empty papers and eager pens
habitually disrupting dreams. After thick black ink bleeds
from her tired hands "" her hands are invisible without this ink ""
onto the paper that gulps it into its desiccated throat,
fresh spring water in a desert, an oasis in the moonlight.
A sickly sweet heat dressed as safety that slithers
through the window's blinds and sees the girl as a widow
to herself, in a war with the words racing down her spine.
Words sweetly slice her body into two (she feels no pain,
for the words have already stolen her sleep
and help themselves to her hurt, too) and half of her slips
under the front door and flies through the city and she is made new,
by the clock on 4th Street.
New, by the lonely man with a sideways smile.
New, by the tears spilled on a childhood novel.
New, by graffiti painted with heart waterfalls.
New, by a couple in the throes of shattered lust.
She rejoins the half of her in the dark bedroom
so that she again becomes whole.
At peace serving as a vessel for the words
plucked subconsciously from the atmosphere
by an entity that needs her as much as she needs it,
a symbiotic relationship matched by the strength of the words
that mend her together with enhanced harmony. She is stardust
fused with love and hate, where words choose to stop and rest
on their long walks through the forest,
when they are tired and need someone to give them love.

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