Waiting for the spring

                                                                                                     

seventeen, nearly eighteen

trying to make sense of her existence

by writing about it in a red notebook

trying to describe an ancient feeling using brand new words

an impossible mission and yet she tries, rarely succeeding

her story is yet to be written

her lips are yet to be kissed

her heart yet to be captured

standing still in the autumn that is her life

she has a house; a place where she can run

but no home, where her soul can rest

she lays her head on a pile of questions

waiting for the spring

(skrevet 24.07.09; over et år siden, but somehow I feel the same)