She

As a keen child,
she was all I wanted to be –
bristling curls bundled, tight lips of focus,
and mountainous cheekbones;
ash-swirled eyes glinting gentle
as she sat, not friendless,
on indigo nights
in still dive bars,
reading a bent spine’s
solitary tale
far from this forlorn town –
adventure, crisp companion greets,
silent sky forests –
nothing like here, instead,
a bloom of possibility.