Between the pages

From the windowsill of her yawning window,

her knees brought tightly to her chest,

She opens herself to the immense world

beyond with a book nestled in her lap.

Here she escapes when the loneliness comes seeking into the depths of the mind.

When the world anchors the chasms of her hopes and dreams.

Or when the shouting of her parents wake her from the tranquility of sleep.

These eager, nimble fingers run along the spine of her joy and pride,

the taste of freedom; everything delight.

All hidden between the crisps pages, an adventure abolishing the weight of the world from her shoulders.

She dreams between the lines. The angry shouts dissipate—smoke in air—sand between fingers.

Unseen places arise, sights and tastes unfamiliar in her dark world.

The lights flare in the darkness.

Comfort hangs heavy around her lithe shoulders, the warmth, the joy, the bliss.

Always here with her knees to her chest.

Always here with her small fingers running along the spine.

Always here on the windowsill, yawning open wide, and the world one glance away. Comfort.

Places she goes so freely in between the pages.