Far behind the forest of flying paper aeroplanes. Grazing on the grounds of ponytails. The substitute is counting down her ticks till recess. Hammering down to size her fingernails.
In the breathless hush of 4 a.m.. In the dark sits a sad cliche. Cloaked in the navy blue of slowly fading stars. . Tell me how this came to be. Sleeplessness talk to me.