She was blank as paper. Eager to be stained by ink. Eager to be smeared with words.
Eager for words to quench her thirst.
Her skin looked like it could take in some words, any words.
Her lips were empty as a glass. Eager to be filled. Eager for some tinted liquid to splash on their surface.
Like dried walls eager to be glossed over.
Her life was a day that seemed to never end. She was eager for the night to arrive.
Eager for the sun to settle. Eager for the grass to cool. For the cicadas to hum. For the stars to shine.
Her routine existed without a meaning. And secretly in its crevices, it craved a deep meaning.
It was eager for something to come and nudge it. To jolt it. Or was it too eager for a violent shake?
A weird craving curled inside. Eager that something would arrive and pluck the old trees from their roots.
And inside the silent heart danced a little spark. Eager to grow into licking flames. Eager to burn everything in its way.
As the dusty clock’s arms creaked, the old simmered. Eager to be wiped down. Eager for the new to arrive.
© Jaya V, 2022
