She is lost

She is lost in the opaque script of the shadows. Each stage beyond your eye assumes a finer hold on her actions, further from your effect. Hands wring in the shadows, shivering profiles into and out of bolts of domestic light, hair sways through dappled apertures of silhouette and stocking feet stack and unstack with heel on ankle and toe on toes. In the shadows she sits in moments of differing actions. She gives to you a jumble of omens and talismanic body fragments. You know what they compose and where they condemn you. But in the script of shadows, loosened from you and from her is delivering misunderstanding. She sits at the kitchen table. Her hair on the right side hangs long across her face in wet plaits. It touches the table and coils onto itself and falls again as her head turns to the right, toward the corner of the room. Her hair is tucked behind her left ear. Her lobes are translucent and waxy. She pauses with her head cocked and feels the apartment on her skin. Its emptiness runs beneath her collar and she adjusts her neck reflexively and widens her eyes to the dark. She is folding cloth napkins slowly in to squares. Checked green and white squares divide the smaller folded squares. Her feet beneath the table alternate one heel atop the opposite foot, filling the night time.