She was born of delicate porcelain
so fragile, yet stone cold.
Even the optimists expected her to break hearts into halves
No woman as sentimental as she
brave, yet naive.

There would be battles between
her heart and mind. Forever.
Immersed within the meaning, her mind fought with reality's shield in hand. Forced to surrender to the heart
cutting deeper with its knife.

Misconstrued by the mirage, she trusted no one, so she trusted nothing.
Even the light at the end of the tunnel may lead unto another
darker than the first. She claims no pessimism
and she is not at all afraid of loss; loneliness; literature's lessons on how to simply conquer the fear of letting go.

No. No feeling is simply that without reasoning. what is
one without the other? Never simply two, but
Three. Like the tale of all good things to come
Aligned by the sequence of belief, of fate, of miracles all simply
Leveled by reality. Stone cold like that of The

Winter until time turns it to The Spring, morphing into The summer.
Only to leave her stranded within the mirage of the Fall. She forgets no one. She forgives them all
Made by a woman. Sentimental since the beginning. This is the story of
A woman born into a
Never ending series of falling in lust

you can never have too many flowers
and if not for simply love
perhaps for sympathy

i perceive unique perfections
in the fullness of bouquets
and the life they bring
to the rise of the morning
and then dim silence of the night

i admire the aesthetic that they grant
glass coffee tables
and island counter spaces
i enjoy the glimspe of colors
on city street corners
atop the bedside tables
of broken hearted girls
within the hands of lifetime lovers
and softly laid in remembrance
from the dirt in which they came

like we
alive in the spirit of gifting
our innate love to another

like flowers
to mean something to somebody

while my guitar gently weeps

i listen in regret.
as she lays silent  
underneath the bed frame of my childhood. there are
memories packed into the pastel yellow duvet
that i clutched to comfort my fear
of letting go
of figures in the past time.

i never learned to play her
and the shame overcomes me when
acoustics touch my heartstrings tenderly. i grieve for
her life for it has been so isolated.
she is simply "what could have been"
an awakening that has yet to rise
and escape into masterpieces

i long for her while i never truly knew her
at all
her infinite potential to create such
flawless forms of storytelling

i long for the forgone companionship  
encompassed so deeply
though for now she rests still
beside scrapbooks crowded into
spaces without room to breathe
or purpose to see the light
of the morning

The museum captures
still life
sculpted with slender ideology
masked by the movement of diamonds
neither the sun nor moon could shield her
from the nature of desire.
she moves in her                             own way.

Art eclectic like that of floating stairs...
b
  u
     o
        u
           a
              n
                 c
                    y
like her very own becoming
and circular patterns mimic
constant contemplation
of undoings.

She takes steps toward
a painting of her own.
An almost perfect frame, she sits
under the tree
to pray.
Sinking into a state of multitudes,
she buries her very own diamonds
in the heart
of the earth forever.

i spend three days in dreams with open eyes
until the last rose petal falls
silence writes "remember me" in italics
just to emphasize the disposition
of three
in a space for two.

blurred visions of glass shatters
like a roll of film that leaks, stains blank pages
ruled by the very narrow lines of what could have been
and still could somewhere be.

and two toast to somewhere over the bridge
a touch with force to damage such glass
nearly transparent to mirror
this consequence of causality
and the knot that ties two tethered
will detach forever
like broken glass.

three divided into two
uneven
halves of hearts
of glass

I paint the walls in shades of green like leaves of grass. It grows and I talk about my days in paragraphs. How long can they survive in cold winter nights? To be frozen over is a risk I couldn't bare to take alone. How long can i stay awake to tear pages into pieces? They, like little leaves of grass, are frozen over. I look to the wall and see past pictures taped to what once was blue. Books marked by middle pages marked by red roses and letters never folded evenly into envelopes. The beginning is a reflection of the end, and one can not exist without the other. So I ask myself, what is the purpose of the lock without the knowing of its key?

patterns on her buttoned blouse
as to gemstones on his crown
glistening gold intrinsic
as to such history profound

he walks through crowds on narrow red
her days spent on narrow trains
libraries full of lessons
her journals filled with tattered pain.

stands on her doorstep moments many
his key stored still beneath the jade
while her footsteps echo corridors
and his love is truly trade

their bedsheets made of cotton too
moon full through window glass
held within the arms of others
two ghosts of someday's past