She holds the pen lightly between her fingers, wriggling it. On the paper, she lets go. She spins a web of words and doodles, delicately woven together. Her lips are in a race with her fingers, mumbling words under that sublime,sublime breath. She is the burning wick of a candle, the dark light which she carries within herself. Most of the times, she burns herself for the stories of the wind; ashes.
There is not a single day where she has not cried herself to sleep. The weight of existence on her tiny shoulders. The intangible heaviness on her chest.
She takes her fingertips to her chin and the whole universe falls in place. Her chest heaves to the breath of the oceans.
Before she goes to sleep, she stares at the ceiling, head on pillow. She can’t breathe. She is drowning in the whirlpools of her mind. Her tears become one with the water and she dies. Her body comes out like a cloud from the ocean to the blue sky, she goes to sleep.
Most of the times, she is trying to fill that void in her navel with someone or something. That emptiness, the birth of purposelessness makes her restless. In those days, she feels the sea water soak into her throat. Salt, salt.
Sometimes, she builds paper boats so that she can save herself from