She lived inside a wooden house, missed by the distant sea. She dreamt and drank the solitude, of the wind and the trees. She keeps the ocean in a bottle on top of the lonely grass, and all day traces the faltering outline, of her evanescent dream. Her lungs are made of glass and her fingertips of paper. Her hair is painted the same shade of grey that the sun feels, as it must choose between kissing the trees goodbye or the ocean hello. Inside her dark eyes the world sees a fighter, but buried beneath the caving roots, in her heart there lives a lover. The more she sleeps inside the earth, the broken wings beneath her ribcage disable her to fly. He lives inside a wooden boat, missed by the flowers. He dreams of life along the grass, and being kissed by the trees. The more he sleeps inside the ocean the farther his boat sinks, and deeper he drowns in its shallow open waves. He keeps a wilted flower inside a box beside his oars, and all day as he traces it’s weakened figure, he watches as the outline fades, along with his transient dream. His hands are made of water, but his heart long misses the smell of the trees. As he slowly paddled along his aching sea, he knew he would never again get to feel the chill of the grass against his knees, or be touched by the warmth of the girl, who lay inside her wooden house, which would always remain a lifetime away.