She’s always waking up. The bed as much of a mess as her kitchen—knotted and tangled in what seems like a never-ending bunch of madness. Pillows sunken in so terribly they could pass for sheets but she—she is beautiful.
Maybe it’s her long flowing hair. The rosiness of her cheek. The crookedness of her smile. The gap between her two front teeth.
Or perhaps her beauty rests in her complexity. Seeing the world at every angle. Loving even though she is hated. Breathing even though she is suffocating. Working even though she reaps no reward. She is a pitiful idiot. Beautiful, lovely, foolish idiot.
Pressed against her back, a tatty lumberjack flannel t-shirt that was worn to bed. A partially empty glass on her nightstand and a journal with a pen tucked between written pages keeping her place. Awoken by ambition to do the same thing that was done every moment of every day she’d live.
High heels, pencil skirt, lipstick and that letter she held so close to her. Musings of a lover she has yet to meet. His words, his will and his promise. Her dream.