Black hair, a concentrated face
Hand held like Hamlet,
Skull replaced with a small thin brick,
The same depth of question on her mind,
And I wonder why we don’t paint with words.
They are what are running through her head,
Some carried on thin wires to her ears,
But more buzzing in between
with faster speeds than fiber.
Eyes gaze past trees into her head
at the highway traffic inside.
She walks the pavement in these stolen hours.
There is so much you cannot see,
That I no longer see as I write.
Her clothes have faded into black and white,
There was a headband, but little else remains in memory
Save her eyes, the arch of her wrist,
The phone she held like a violin,
And her hair, darker than her plastic phone.
Memory is a poor thing.
It holds less pigment than paint
Yet the words sung in her skull
Escape both paint and poems.
We paint what we see and guess
Each creating windows to the ocean floor
When we only see the ripples.