Memories

There are stories waiting to be written. Who will write them, if tomorrow never comes?

Puffy, white clouds suspended in the sky, as she lies silent, stilled by the weight of her anger.

Not moving forward, not moving backward - not moving.

Poised to spring and yet nestled in the safety of isolated contemplation.

 

She hoards memories like glass mementos, ordered and disordered, as she pleases.

Like dead children - stuffed baby dolls; perched in the moment - never changing, never growing old.