Many muses.

The next few days, alone.

Ants in her mind.

Toes pointed off the ground.

She's a little too old to begin again.

It's a relief.

There's no graffiti.

That counts.

Stand offish.

He shoots light.

Peeling back her skin.

She can't take it apart.

It pinches her.

The slightest movement.

Pondering patterns.

Charmed.

That inner spirit.

By the morning it won't be true.

Thousands of dollars.

Time with a friend.

The veil of routine.

The layering on of the years.

A little more effort.

A single thread.

Poetry.

The crookedness.

She wants time to commit.

Sitting on the bathroom floor at sunset.

The lines fray.

Skeletal. Holy.

Stick with it.