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.

Utter perfection.

 

 

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.