She unintentionally focuses on the pounding feeling that nestles in the middle of her skull, beating her waking brain, trying to force it to surrender to the illusionary comfort of sleep once more. But she's given in three times throughout the night and early morning, and she is not prepared to do it again, so she rises, sighing in dismay, for the cold that has clogged her nose and head refuses to go. It is either the third or fourth day - she can't remember. She didn't notice when it started, because she never does notice things when they start. She only notices half-way through, when it's too late to do anything to prevent it, and the only course left to take is the one that will lead her still onwards. Whether that is a good thing or a bad thing, she doesn't know.

When she slips past the metal rungs of the ladders, unnoticed, her eyes fall upon her bedroom door. Not her sister's, no, but hers. Immediately, she is reminded of a time where she was forced to sleep elsewhere again, a time where she woke to cold sunlight and melting ice. She would steal away in the early morning so as not to break the rules of the night, and 'accidentally' fall asleep in the forbidden warmth of another girl's arms. No-one could get her into trouble for that, not when she'd at least slept in beside her sister for the night. If they happened to fall asleep again, they couldn't help it, could they? When tired it is easy to drift off again with another.

For a long time she stares at the bedroom door, a pale, melancholy blue colour with areas that are slightly chipped. The dull black doorknob is still broken. No-one's bothered to fix it again after it loosened for the second time. What's the point, really? It still functions fairly well. The door still opens and, more importantly, it still closes as well. If it didn't close, she'd have to complain and get it fixed. She can't handle lack of solitude; she needs her space, time, her own thoughts. Yet at the same time, she becomes lonely; draws into herself, becomes a bland shadow of the vivid flamboyance that usually exudes from her wherever she treads. Lonely, and seeks solitude. Does she enjoy pain? She's always said she hates it. What is real, truthful, and what is not?

It's been one minute and seven seconds since she stopped to look at her own door, but she doesn't know that - she wasn't counting. Eventually she opens it, looking into the room that doesn't feel like hers right now, for she's not allowed to sleep there and her uncle has moved in and she doesn't know how long it's going to be until she can escape there again. She stares in and on the freshly-made bed she imagines that her muse is there again, curled into a fetal ball and still sound asleep until the poet's footsteps and quiet questions wake her from illusion.

Slowly, the poet curls up on the bed, sickening bright pink sheets blocked from her vision as she closes her eyes, frowning as she tries to drift off, sniffing and hardly able to breath. Her head spins and aches, and she prays that sleep will return to her, unjudging, forgiving her for banishing it earlier. She sighs, painedly, and pulls a large cuddly toy to her chest, pushing her mind past the boundaries of imagination and into the world of dreams and wishes, where the weight against her chest is the artist, her muse, and there are fingers entwined with hers, and the room is again her own, and she is, for once gladly, the very farthest thing from alone.

do you miss me?