Crafted from Michelangelo's hands,
a gem eyes fumble to adore.
Shapes, lines, curves perfectly placed on her body to sing harmonies that echo perfect anatomy
a dazzling dream,
but her soul hugs a dead sun.
She's a sculpture of fair marble
built with a jungle of thin strings to fill her entirety, like a cat's cradle adorned with twines of roses to mimic completion.
she thought losing a few petals for the happiness of others was kind
A rose for him, a rose for her...
she is all but a mirror,
for her smile has always been a reflection of others.
she wears a face with printed traces of happinesses to shadow the gloom breeding under her own.
strong built independent woman
but secretly prizes to be caressed in hands with a feeble touch,
...to be pursued with a genuine smile
..to be treated worth more than an art piece in a gallery that eyes dart on and forget about it, the second they walk past.
to be checked when her soil dries out.
Attic lily, she is,
for no one notices her unless they need something from the attic.
My friend's story. Relatable?