The buttery eye of a butterfly caught my sigh slipping shy to the windowsill where your lips spill insomnia powering watermills undefeated by the modern Don Quixotes. My muse breathes in higher frequency... I'm telling her to stop... Stop. My thoughts don't rely on my lungs anymore for they have organs of their own... as well as separate agendas. They paint you psychedelicate, frail and yet invincible. Murderously vulnerable. Violently tender. The hunted is the hunter. The femme fatale.

Rose petals like love letters crinkle around well loved edges
The sweet scent of their memory still saturates my senses
I miss you more than I could ever articulate
Each nerve ending longs for just a whisper, a touch
Occasionally I stumble across old recordings of your beautiful voice
Now only in dreams do I witness
Soft movements, tender touches
Waking with aches and pains that only you could ease
A well painted visage fits perfectly over the sadness
Aglow with sunlight and smile veneer seals solid with coarse tears
I keep hidden what I cannot hide