I think, in an ideal world,
She will be small and lonely, round glasses on a nose
Lenses the thickness of coke bottles and
Hair as fickle as sunshine and rain
And she will creep into the store, searching
Her hands careful on the door so the bell doesn’t ring
She will breathe in the smell of canvas magic, her heavy shoulders suddenly buoyant
Her fingers will tickle the spines of her friends as if to say
Wake up – it’s time to tell your stories
She will stop to pick up the lone paperback, forgotten on the floor
Flooded with empathy for inanimate objects
Hair falling in her face, she will curl up, spines digging into her spine
Poetry prominent, reality receding
She will revel in the comfort of words that feel like her own
And maybe –
She will make a new friend
The Runaway Words 