She

She knows what she wants without really knowing at all. She's kept all these secrets bottled up inside but they spill out with every move she makes. Is it weird that I'd rather watch her live than hear her tell me about her life? She has this way of needing me and then using me all up as if my touch has an expiry date.

I like to watch her when she's lost in thought. She makes these faces that paint the silence, paints it in the colours of all those late nights and early mornings... My bed was always black and white without her...

Its hard to talk to her because there's always a song in my head when she's close. I'd hate to mix up reality with my hopeless songs of pretty muddled up words.

Pretty because they're about her.

She must be dreamt up, some niche in my subconscious. She crumbles at skin on skin and I'm left with the dust of a girl who couldn't be this real to anyone else. Real because I can still hear her breathing.

She's always lost and I'm always searching. I need her to know that she has a resting place. She belongs somewhere. She belongs with me.