Paper moons and lonely girls
I am not lonely,
she marveled to the moon, while his head rested on her shoulder.
I have art,
I have endless amounts of art living inside of me.
But
sometimes I long for the touch of another soul,
the warmth of anothers fingertips
against my spine....
I guess I am quite lonely, she said;
I am the worst kind of lonely.
The kind that sneaks up on you while you’re sleeping,
the kind that sits on your chest
when it’s already hard for you to breathe.
The kind that whispers in your ear
when you finally find a quiet room;
the kind that doesn’t know it’s there.
I guess I am quite lonely, she breathed.
So she lay her head against the moons chest, breathing in the scent the stars had left along his paper hands. His touch filled the gaps inside her,
With millions of galaxies,
And flowers singing across the lines of her dirty palms. And she thought to herself, how wonderful it was,
to be all alone
this vast sky all to herself;
Her thoughts between her and the moon.
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