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She rests her hollowed soul along the rims of a delicate mug filled to the brim with what's well and truly more milk than coffee. Light fading in through the postern, licking her face in pale blips of sunshine, gentle reminders of the skin that the outside world has furnished for itself. Bedhead nuzzled in the crook of a book's warm arm, a promising whisper in her ear — I will always be here when you need me most. She dwells in the sweet nothings scribbled along the pages of a land that swells with the sensations of home; A fonder slice of something more familiar than the place she sleeps at night.
