Nothing good ever happened on benches.
They arrest a moment.
Allow the infinite lingering.
A seat where the same old injury was inflicted on her soul.
She would remain seated.
Unable to get up, move on.
Staring into the nothingness that she was left with.
The first touch should have alarmed her.
Instead she kept coming back for more.
Loneliness does that to her.
Keeping her identity at bay.
When did it happen, this revolt against her own solitude?
She was afraid of the moon, its revelatory nature.
Illuminating the darkness, the lies she decorates herself with.
The question marks it brings with it.
And soundlessly her mouth yells into the mattress.
Leaving her heart on the railtracks.
Hating the train. Loving the train.
To be deserted: a familiar taste in her mouth.
Screaming out loud as it all pops, the light through the cloud.
“A Sleeping Girl” by Pietro Rotari (1707-1762)