my personal porcelain doll

you rest your head on my shoulder
fiddling with the lace on your collar
satin and velvet and threads of gold
mirroring the hems that hold together your soul

your irises are as black and inky
as the words on the pages you bury yourself into
and just as full as life- rather, the life of a thousand others
and with that said, you dig your own grave

your hair cascading down my shoulder
more graceful than a hundred artesian fountains
matches the shade of the coffee you sip
perching patiently on the windowsill

surely whatever is stirring inside your empty chest feels realer
than sentences crafted by dead and dying authors
but if the long-gone musings are origami birds
you are a walking bird cage

so tell me, how is your menagerie faring?

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