She was beautiful, so blissfully ignorant to the turmoil in the world. She encapsulated all the beauty of the earth. Looking at her was like the first time experiencing what love was. The first sun rise, the first rose, the first ***** cat. Her clothes danced around her never really touching her; as if afraid the slightest brush against her tanned skin might alter it in some way. Nature knew.

I was proposed to once,
in an unfinished treehouse,
in his backyard.
The silence that fell between us,
only reminded me that:
we were just a thought.
An idea that tasted sweet
on the tip of my tongue;
but grew sour when I laughed.
And you kicked the leaves in defeat,
knowing that this was a passing phase.
And that saying "yes" wouldn't change
the way a clock ticks.
*The very clock that would be our end.

I still find myself wanting you.

Why is it that I feel so good inside when absolutely nothing is inside of me?