Her breath was born from a clap of thunder

and she always loved the thought of touching the words

in the upright books that rested beside her head

Most nights the clock kept her focused

on the lights from passing traffic that crept away at dawn

like a thousand soulless strangers

Her eyes only burned when the morning kept pace

with a world to which she did not adhere

Far too often the story is better than what actually happened

Sometimes what actually happened will never be fully understood

Most nights we only have the thought of words