we lock our doors. we let things run. if we could wrap it around our necks (this softest fur, this live animal) we wouldn’t need to stop.
***
she never knew what her name meant. she could easily be called upon by the gesture of a hand, or by an indistinguishable grunt. she was born, and then she would die—this is the certainty that kept her there. she was spared the worry, and she never learned to run. her greatest achievement was a carefully mastered detachment which afforded her all the mercy she would ever need. she kept her muscles soft, and as they coated her with that snug, cushy warmth, she could almost feel her mind expire.
she was drawn to stillness. she often stood anchored in the middle of a moving swarm—an intimate pleasure she could share with no one. she had long hair, forgettable waves in an ocean of chestnut, amber and honey. she loved how it flew out, storming among the flutter of all these strangers. she was not waiting so much as she was set on not acknowledging the quickness of the sand escaping through her hands. she always kept a bit of the earth in her pockets. she knew when to take some of it out, when to let it run between her fingers, when to leave a trail behind.
no one noticed her there, nor did they notice the trail. she saw life as nothing more than a minor note, something she only vaguely participated in on account of her patient, beating heart. she would never let herself die, and she would never let herself live, either; she greeted the world in stasis, caught in a wild wind, and that is how she would also say goodbye.