and ink runs through her veins. she’ll write you into her story. she’ll give you a nice prologue, with a little twist and romance. her bookshelf’s getting crowded. with all the stories that she penned, of the people who flicked through her pages, but closed the book before the end. and there’s one pushed to the very back, that sits collecting dust, with it’s title in her finest writing. “the ones who lost my trust”
she smelled of books and stories of all the world she lived within, as though the ink had left the pages to find new home in her skin. she didn’t quiet belong here. lived a life within her head, like she slipped out from under the covers of a paper back instead. and you see it in her eyes that they were deeper than a well, she was a whole library of stories that we’d beg of her to tell. when she spoke the world would listen to the adventure of her mind. for if there’s such a thing as magic, then it was something she could find. and in her heart had looked much further than her eyes had ever seen. she’d walk in words to places.