She’s still waiting
for the perfect phrase
as these quill-soaked days
run, one into the other, inky blue ellipses.
The best is yet to
be, they sell her, but she
is kind of attached to these
blank spaces, marching margins gone AWOL.
She’s still writing
for herself, for love, for life
pressing blackness into white
and knowing there’s a light at the end of this etched life.