Here upon this old woven chair
She sits in the land of the inbetween
Perched under a wooden sign post
The one rooted into muscle that sits between our ribs
There at the very tip toe top
Crucified by a plethora of old moss rusted nails
Are two arrows exactly one inch apart.
Aligned in tandem with our nettle smothered pathway
Branching off at the tips of her suede knees
One strictly pointing east, and the other in a rigid west.
Waiting for her choice.
The flesh of her thigh torn by the tattered wicker benethe
Sticky rubies beading over flakes of emerald paint.
Pale pink petals bloom in formation across skin
A signal light of soreness enveloping the scrape
Up the path skips another one of them.
A young boy with a purple grin.
It is here at the forked road he will pause.
“Which one are you taking?” Just like the others
His hope bowing over her head.
“What do you mean?” She replies
Ear cocked to shoulder in bare confusion.
“The paths, which path is for your heart?” He asks, already heading towards the west.
Not waiting for her fruitless response.
“Neither, my heart chose both.”
Her voice echoing across the wooded limbo.
Swaying fluidly with the trees.
Mirroring the waves of her heart.
Content in loves purgatory.