The sound of poetry slipping from my tongue
sings the same tune as her dress
slipping from her shoulders,
as the midnight bell rings a sweet goodnight,
although sleep is far from both our minds.

Her cherry wood hair,
and rosy blossom cheeks,
combine to make a dear so sweet.
Moments with her are cherries of time,
nectarous instances,
an oh so fulfilling fruit.

Her eyes bleed tender light
into the fabric of my soul,
I have never seen a gaze
so steeped with depth,
as the moment my heart
was plucked from my chest,
and pulled through my mouth
with a moan.

Tender is her light
that radiates from her marble skin,
except for the dark of her eyes,
so deep that light never escapes,
but only builds greater beauty
within her spirit.

The space of this room is impressed
with your former presence;
footsteps in the sand that refuse
to be washed away by time.
It's as though the air flows in accordance
to the memory of your breath,
and the light bends in a bow
to your absent beauty.
You have left this place in love with your touch,
as every trace of your hand is recounted
with the tock of the clock.
This place will never forget you,
and as I sit,
left alone from your leaving,
I toast the room and its close resemblance
to my own mind,
the other place that is unmistakably
touched by once knowing you,
and is left empty of all but your memory.

I long to live life
like the birds who fly not through air,
but on sunlight itself.
I wish to become like a butterfly,
one who blooms a flower
by spreading its wings wide
to show the world its beauty.
Like the grass, I will turn green come Spring,
wealthy in life and company,
learning to dance in the wind.

Her poetry was stitches of gold
that held her together through the tugging of life,
and portrayed the best
of her dazzling inner beauty to the world.