Ribboned at the wrists
by rue and sulk. Dressed
in dust, lacey cobwebs.
Since
your shaped waned,
it’s been squinting ventures
in the dark.
Now the sun undresses at the window,
shining as a bench-pressed chest.
It’s gold finders gesturing a
runner across my outline-
the closest amount of action
I’ll get from touch.
Ariel admits she’s a moody girl. When she’s not drawing or sighing, she writes to bring form out of the pandemonium in her.