Portrait

     She thought she'd carry his picture around, if people carried photographs anymore. The edges would be yellow from wear. She'd carry it in a pocket where she could rest her hand on it  from time to time, imagining it closed the distance between them.
     She'd lay in her old bed. She'd be afraid for it's much darker here. She'd wonder if the music she heard existed somewhere deep in the surrounding woods, or if it is just her imagination trying hard to save her from the solitude she was buried in. Eyes shut tight against the night, she'd press his picture to her chest, tracing his shape with her fingertips; imagining his blue eyes locked on hers. She'd never been so intrigued with blue. These eyes were new, these eyes felt easy, safe. 
     She'd long to tell him of her travels. Her "adventures." She'd make them sound that way. She'd try to make him meet her, somewhere in between. She knew through the thick darkness and the heat of the day she'd never see him again.  Never hear his distinct voice settle her shaky one. She knew she wasn't the traveling type. It was all just a pretty picture on someone else's wall, or a nice idea in a book she'd read, or a friend had read, or she always wanted to read. 
     The truth is she is lost. And not a map or a compass could lead her back home.