h e r

her's was the sound of shattering glass
a sharp ringing
in your ears
the endless spinning
of a tiny dancer trapped
in her jukebox jail with
flattened tones, playing
a withered
rendition
of that red tune

she was the kink
in your straight line
the blank in your stance
she was the frantic
bend in each leafy corner
of a labyrinth set against
the setting sun

her's was the wounded
breathing of the tide
and the blood running
up and down your neck

she was the unwritten
book
the unscripted line
the word unsaid

- she by Lang Leav