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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)