It started on this white sheet of paper, with the tip of this blue pen that smears the permanent stains, continued with each crease. Because it’s the way she sees them move against one another, as if a stand-off in time. The way her mother’s words never fully reach her eyes. All the empty phrases can’t help but pluck on the heartstrings that never quite knew how to bounce back. So she wrote a poem and called it “Seeking” because that’s what it was all about. Because they always said “keep your eyes peeled and your lips shut.” And in arms of the ocean her mother was always there to tuck her in at night, and she always dreamt of the stars. She looked for the golden star in the rhythm they stressed out in each line. With vacant notions she found they already had the stanzas memorized and unified them in iambic phrases that jutted out. So she went along in the motionless seasons, moving forward, but always looking back. And one day her mother’s inclination changed, where her words matched her eyes. A jut of force with livid misgivings snuffed out what was searching inside.

So in black and blues she wrote a poem, and named it “Falling” because that’s what it  was all about. She kept her eyes shut and her lips parted, flicking butts in the putts that burned holes through her shoes. When her mother stayed up late and never tucked her in at night. So she stopped dreaming of the stars, but burning of white daisy’s in palled eyes in the snuff. She looked for golden mascara that aligned poses of the wanted and departed of those of the “not.” The murmur of rhythm was cracked and sloshed in every red solo cup, that never added up, but jutted out. So she went along with the more inviting dares of the spawns, never looking back. And one day she realized it wasn’t the right season and wasn’t quite sure which way to turn, so she decided to fall back in oblivion—the easier raft.

So with pale fingertips she wrote one last poem on the back of a crinkled up napkin and named it “absolutely nothing” because that’s what it was really about. No phrases were uttered in her double twin bed, all the way down from the city, except when her mother called form time-to-time speaking in only stanzas of free verse. And when she was done he would come over, but this time she kept her lips parted and her eyes peeled wide. And at 3 in the morning he tucked her into bed, and she dreamt of nothing—only night-less days seemed to satisfy. So she slips on her golden heels, hidden in the back of her closet with straps that constrain the unknown of contentions. And one night her rhythm stopped and she never looked back, or forward, or at all. Instead she finally labored to the moon.