I think I have spring fever,
     but I am sand with no place for roots.

and

once I had so little,
     that I only deserved to have less. 

(Source: girlwithoutwings)

Child, she crooned, 
a woman is born to be hollow.
 
You are an hourglass in reverse,
fragile with a purpose,
grains of sand counting moons,
waiting for wailing,
and this sort of fire can spin you into glass.

Child, she crooned,
you are empty to be filled to be empty.

(Source: girlwithoutwings)

He did not know where lost things went,
but he swore to keep her name tucked beneath his tongue
so all his words would know the shape of her,
the same way rivers know their stones.  

(Source: girlwithoutwings)

They grew up in a town no one would’ve chose and no one ever chose to leave. With a little more direction, they’d have been runaways, just silhouettes on the horizon fading fast. He would’ve exhaled, smoke lingering over the train-tracks even after they were gone. She would’ve said no goodbyes and wouldn’t have always wondered just what the west looked like.

(Source: girlwithoutwings)

Halcyon child, they called her,
and though she was too old for the term,
it suited her eyes. They say
she did not remember the war—
only the woods,
the sighs in the trees
and the stones by the river. 
Even uprooted,
something of the forest had marked her,
had seeped into her skin and rested
in the hollow between her shoulder blades.
They say she did not feel the fire. 

(Source: girlwithoutwings)

“clockwork,” she says,
like dandelions in the sidewalks,
the sighcreak in the stairs, and the
man with the palsy and pigeons.

he stutter-steps, whiskey heavy,  
and he does not climb
the sighing stairs.

and she waits,
like a desert woman dreaming of water.

(Source: girlwithoutwings)