once, there was a girl who, broken, left her color and joy behind, forgetting her worth. days passed into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. she built her walls, brick by brick, settling into solitude. gently, the world slowly wove its way back into her soul, spots of color here and there. smiles replaced the tears and she no longer mourned for what was not and what could not have been. the years of introspection and self-examination showed her that she was enough. enough for herself. that she was full of color.
Solitude
It’s something they carry with them
– explorers night shifts seamen –
like a good pair of binoculars
or a camera case
perfectly and deeply compartmented.
It has a quiet patina
that both absorbs and reflects
like a valuable instrument
you have to sign for
– contract with alone –
and at the end of the voyage
you get to keep.
Sometimes it’s very far away.
Sometimes so close
at first you think the person next to you
is picking up putting down
a personal cup
a book in another language
before you realise what
– when talk has moved off
leaning its arms
on someone else’s table –
is being
handed to you.
Appearing Closer 