She’s a collector of simple things
The breakdowns, the sheared hair, the open vein
She collects them all, nothing missed
If owned by lessers and their greaters
She places them in a box
Not a 7-sided thing like Pandora’s
But a box of light, remembering better times, and
opened with a key of understanding, a key of growth
She meanders as she walks, touching here and there
Always looking for her next trophy, her next piece of the puzzle
She doesn’t always find what she needs, but
she does always find a helping hand
When the night swiftly courses, bringing its daily offerings and empty platitudes
She walks her path, leaving resolution and missed cravings in her wake
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