A faint scar
rests just above her hip.
Crescent shaped and
small,
it can almost be
ignored.

Almost.

The scar
on her heart,
the one shaped
just like him,
cannot be
so easily
forgotten,
though
this scar
is no real scar.

There is no healing.

It is an open wound,
oozing and infected.
It is a sore
that just won't scab.
It is a bleeding ****,
raw and red.
It is a welt on tender skin,
angry and swollen.

It will never
leave her.

I can play
the razor,
you can play
the skin.

One cut.
That is all I need.
I will make you love me
and that will make you bleed.

Blood pumps through a heart,
beat by thumping beat.
That makes them best
to conquer and
also best
to eat.

Have you ever
taken a picture
of a sunset,
just to realize that
you'll never capture
the true
colors,
the intense
emotions,
the full
beauty
of that moment?

Have you ever
taken a picture
of the crescent moon,
only to find that
you'll never catch
the unfolding
mysteries,
the brilliant
light,
the unwavering
loyalty
of that moment?

That's how I feel
when I try to
write poems
about you.

You see yourself as a fall tree slowly creeping towards demise.
Each leaf that falls from your gnarled branches
and throws itself to the mercy of the whipping wind
that blows without end through your once proud plumage,
shaking you to the core,
edges you closer to a fearfully empty winter.

You once were green and strong,
standing tall and proud with no thought of the coming cold.
You now bend to the will of the passing seasons,
bowed and pushed nearer to the end of the world,
the end of your world.

But you are no mere fall tree.

When I look at you,
I do not see death.
I see beauty in your colors and in the way your cracked limbs twist.
I hear music in the wind that howls as it dances across your bark
and in the crunch of your leaves that cover the ground.

No, you are not simply a fall tree to me.

You are a tree,
one that still stands
and one that will never be
forgotten.

I am a sunrise in your eyes and at times,
that makes me green.
I see only red
and sometimes shades of muted gray
when I look at others,
but those colors don't suit you.

A sunrise would suit you,
but I cannot make myself see it.

Instead I see a twilight sky,
riddled with stars,
yet still dark.
If you surround me,
I can't be seen.

If I can convince myself
to believe in the sunrise that you are,
your light will finally banish the darkness
and I'll hide no more.

That frightens me
more than I can say.

You're a trite phrase,
spat with pity,
but with grace.
You're the warm
inviting smile that
stays stretched
on my face.

You're an
autumn wind
sending shivers
to my core.
You're an excess
of wealth and
I've no want
for more.

Twinkle twinkle, my little star.
Your beauty is both near and far.
Near, because you are in sight,
but yours is such a far off light.

I've wished upon you a thousand times
and put you in a hundred rhymes.
I've dreamed that you were next to me,
but some things are not meant to be.