maria, she holds a chain of flowers at the station. she stares at the cardboard houses, all molten blue. she looks at her hands and wonders why her fingers look like breakable rosaries, wrinkled and worn out by Jesus' blood wrapped in singular loneliness.
and maria, she is oh so tired of waiting... waiting for the train that flies hard and fast from
Toronto. The train tracks burn with memories of her father's tales of ships and ladders and butterflies that do not pass out in the rain.
oh how she misses sunlight in spring time. oh how she misses the falling leaves.
and maria she is sick of wandering around walls where she is someone looking for someone who already has someone. and she wonders about her freedom. it wears catsuits at night and slinks away from her.
oh how she misses moonshine in October. oh how she misses mourning desert storms.
maria she holds on to her tightrope,wanting something more than metaphors and profundities. there are daffodils painted on her shoes and she thinks of running and not thinking and not crying and not screaming so she can finally find out what goes on in white rooms.
Oh how she misses twilight in the country. oh how she misses swimming in the sea.
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