Her purple button-up shirt,
Her book held loosely,
Her foot swinging,
close to the ground.
Her slight intake of breath,
When she reads a scene,
That's as close to her heart
As one could get.
The book keeps enticing her
To read one more chapter
A chapter of love-
And of loss.
She swings aimlessly
Back and forth she goes.
The pattern of her heart
Still beating in its cage.
The heart that beats so loud
When the suspense is real.
In that book she's holding-
Holding so close to her heart.
The story keeps going
Her life momentarily on pause.
She keeps swinging
To the beat of her heart.
The swing stops eventually
And so does the story
But ever in her heart
Will that wonderful time be.
A time of exploration
While still in one place
A time of love and loss
But no one she faced.
Her mind still reeling
From all she's been reading
All that's so close.
All that's so dear.
She's the girl in the hammock
Swinging peacefully along
To the story of her heart
And the story in her hands.
YOU ARE READING
𝘐𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 || 𝘗𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺
Poetryinfatuation (n.) (m.) being completely carried away by foolish love or affection The thoughts of my heart course through my brain like a raging river. They haunt me until I let them go. Down to the paper before they write themselves a story. One...
