She seemed to drift away, every once and again. Nobody could have witnessed it without feeling a little awkward for being there. After all, she was inevitable. For her, every structure of her home melted into the mystifying backdrop of her cocaine frame of mind. And every unannounced gasp of an uninvited guest... breezes strolling unsteadily.
She floated through... in her vagrant lacking, full of memories no one had dreamed of her living. But she had the right kind of eyes for journeys through her fantastic nostalgia: glazed over in apathy. Every imperfection cleansed.
She floated through... everyone at the celebration marveled at her spectacular ingenuity. None knew if her troubled brow was ever real. But she understood too much about feeling. Of being born a little further past strange, in the eyes of others. Outside we were paying our respects, praising her instances of illustrated delirium.
She floated through... Family members, best friends, lost loves... noise control allows for their persistence. None remain forever. Traveling throughout the worn and torn house, she longed to love without fear, purpose, or grave form. She longed, remotely.
We have our worn houses, all of us. Most hold onto their household, but undeniably she knew better. For all leave battered, embattled home fronts behind, eventually. And she replied to the comforting removal of guests, one last whisper for the absence of occasion: "I remain, and I float".