She Spoke Of

She spoke of train tracks

and cold damp mornings that seemed to

fly by in an instant.

and steaming coffee that was lukewarm too fast.

and cereal that became soggy while she was busy

blowing hot breath onto even hotter coals.

She spoke of poetry

that twisted and melted before her eyes as a hopeful flame

transformed it to ash

“some words are beige and sedate

and some feel like these flames I wish would burn endlessly”

but that’s not how flames work.

She spoke once again of things to come.

it’s where her mind sauntered most days.

and peace.

the kind that her lungs welcomed as she inhaled-

charred and chilled and yet fresher than anything that had touched her in months.

peace.

the kind your brain can’t compute but your whole being craves.