a   sense   of   alarm   grows   eyes   and   legs   with   every   crawl   upwards   of   her   spine   ,   it   nestles   there   (right   of   her   shoulder)   with   weight   akin   to   a   heavy   hand.   𝚂𝙷𝙴,   𝙸𝙽   𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈   𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚂𝙴,   𝙸𝚂   𝙾𝙽   𝙴𝙳𝙶𝙴.  edge   of   turning   to   uncurtain   what’s   lurking;   edge   is   where   she   is   folded   on   knees   against   a   quiet   name   carved   in   curvilinear   granite.   𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍   𝚜𝚑𝚎   𝚑𝚊𝚍   𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛   𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍   𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏,   though   if   she   were   to   truly   have   thought,   she’d   compare   it   to   the   presence   across   the   greens   behind   her.   When   murmurs   of   mortals   ever   reached   ears,   she   imagined   the  cherishment   of   the   present   and   carriage   of   oneself   brightly...   to   have   the   bearings   similar   to   that   of   river   cocytus,   she   did   not   expect.

❝   were   you   searching   for   something   among   the   lost?   ❞

aside   the   unfamiliar   seed   growing   vines   at   the   base   of   her   vertebrae,   she   wondered   if   a   lover   was   distracted.   no   tale   of   soul   escapings   had   reached   her   𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗,   she   finds   little   to   believe   it   would   begin   now   and   still,   she   wonders.