Write Me In

New ticket for June: "Everything's broken."
Write me in.
Write me in.

"Did you try it off and on?" Every single day.
Nobody says thank you. Nobody learns her name.
Red, red, red, the queue's on fire, but one is green:
"Nothing's broken. Thank you." That one's from me.
Two a.m., a second shift, she writes a world at night,
chapter seven, three years stuck, the cursor blinking white.

She'd trade the ceiling lights for a silver crown,
a court where every stranger says her name out loud.
"Take me there."

Write me in, write me in,
somewhere I'm the one they're looking for.
Ink and iron, an open door,
write me in, in, in, in,
write me in, in, in, in,
write me in.

Five p.m., I'm at her desk. My laptop's working fine.
"What do you do after five?" "I write." "Then show me." "Fine."
Two fingers on the glass, the office lights go out,
silver trees and an iron gate, a court that bows to her now.
Velvet, then leather, then a blade in her hand,
the oracle rings a help-desk bell, and the whole hall stands.
A fae can't lie, so one leans in: "What are you?"
I smile: "Not yours."

Past the seventh chapter, nothing's rendered yet,
grey wire trees, a loading moon, a sky she hasn't said.
The road runs out in white, right where she stopped.
Nobody can write it but you.

Write me in, write me in,
every tower waiting on your word.
Half a war, half a sword,
write me in, write me in.
Write me in.

I won't write a word. I'll show you yours.
Every door you dreamed is still a door.
She steps into the white
and starts to type,
and the world comes in, line by line.

Write me in, write me in,
chapter eight and every light comes on.
Not waiting to be found,
she's the one who writes it down.
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,
write me in,

write me in.

Green ticket: not found. That's fine.
New ticket. "Chapter eight." In progress.
Write me...