Blonde hair that’s darker at the roots
Tied back, with a loose strand that’s swept behind her left ear
Thick brown eyebrows
Awnings above grey green eyes
She’s given up on mascara, because it doesn’t last
Useless really, like the dust jacket of a book
A nervously bitten lip
Sometimes a nervously bitten thumb
An oversized sweater that’s seen better days
Holes in the sleeves for her thumbs to breathe through
She wraps her arms around herself like a straightjacket
With jittery legs under a calm surface
And a pair of dependable Converse
She has a thing for used books
Some would think that to be a vulgar word
But she finds beauty in the used
Because the used have stories worth telling
