Winter nights kiss her neck,
While the moon burns and gives her shivers,
Even where her sweater hugs the skin,
And her scarf still smells like her grandmother did.
The wrinkles in her palms cut deep into her flesh,
her heart line broken like an unfinished sentence
and she wonders if anyone will ever fill it,
or if their lines will never perfectly line up with hers.
Snow dances around orange street lights,
whispers of church bells linger in the silence,
and you can hear the poets break their pencils in the nights,
while trying to capture the metaphors that flutter
into their nets of perfectly woven vowels,
an echo of humanity's last attempts at beauty
and the snow covers her hair in crystals,
and melted into the lines in her palms,
and she smiled, for at least she'll receive fulfillment from the moment,
while others can go searching for it in unwritten paragraphs.
And a man filled her eyes as he waited for the bus,
and she could tell he hadn't dreamt since his days of yearning,
as his eyes cried longing and his hands clenched his briefcase tightly,
with a mindset frozen and a heart that kept on burning.
She pitied all those good men and good women
who let life write their poetry
instead of being the poem themselves.
And she left him there in the snow,
his briefcase which held the things he never really cared about,
and the orange painted him beautiful, just for a moment,
and she fell in love with him, like she did so many before him.
A voice whispered "Come on Gallagher, we'll set things right"
So she left her mind and the orange glowing,
and let love rest on her shoulders as she started writing the second draft
of the life she never really wanted to be scripted.
And even if her shoulders were tired and heavy
she could never let go of dreaming of highways,
and an unscripted ride that took her deep into the night,
where she could dance along the Milky Way like a Roman candle,
like her grandmother told her to as she hugged her tightly.
She pushed her face into the scarf as winter kissed her,
and the smell made her remember how the sun used to feel.
Another page turned, words from yesterday scarred the battlefield
and she'll leave her palms empty, at least for a little while longer.