She’s a lover of the arts
paints pictures with her fingertips
the prints leave ashes across the windows
making it impossible to see.
She hides behind flashes
filtering the moments in hues
of bright orange
high contrast, vivid saturation
She says it’s to capture the moment
but the moment is here,
and her reality is pixels.

She’s a lover of the arts
wishes men dressed like 1940s aristocrats
tipping their hats and offering the moon.
But never a bow.
Not a curtsy in her Rolodex.
She doesn’t like ma’am
and she won’t call you, sir.

She’s a lover of the arts.
Throws newspaper clippings to the sky
pieces of words falling like feathers
she grasps each one
filling her hands
clenching tighter
until the feathers turned to sand
grains on the ground
form boulders,
heavy and construed
she’ll tie strings around each,
take them with her.
Name them after passions.
She believes all author’s words belong to her
Possessive.

She’s a lover of the page
watches the alphabet deliver codes 
an endless flow of possibilities.
Needs a surge protector for her heart.
A powerhouse of meaning
desperate for configuration.
She likes matches hot
candles lit
and the smell of the burn.
She hates implications she’s not enough
but she’s anxious.
Loves vinyl records,
and that one playlist she made the other day
when her mood was just right
and with every song that hits
another dial on the volume
Increases.

She likes the Beatles
but not in a pretentious way.
Loves Tarantino
and slasher films
masked killers who are all the same
it’s the routine.
Desperate for consistency.

She’s a lover of the page
a sap for speeches
but never her own.
At parties,
she’s in the corner of her mind.
Want’s to be heard,
but her words come as whispers.
Hates the social
of reality
checks her phone
to decide what’s missing.

She’s a lover of the page
consumed by the age
in which enough
is playing make-believe
and contentment,
is fictitious need
constructed
by what we see,
another’s filtered reality.