she carried just enough hope,
a little too little memory and wish,
cupped in the warmth of her hands
in broken hours of lavender
as her stomach quivered
like the mountains that grounded her
to a perpetual state of being,
of what she's told to call "home".
moonlight and stars,
waves and oceans
have all been used up
in other people's heartaches.
she missed the road, missed him,
missed "the platonic love of new"
not like constellations and ocean ripples,
but like Kerouac's typewriter
misses his caress.