Benign, benevolent ballerina bubbly bathing by beautiful blossoming balsams.

A gander I took and I was a statue, still, allured, and enchanted. my lips basted by beauty, before her I was an apparition, lost in forests of adulation.

A vanishing spirit soon to be a vestige of a vestige. I shall wage wars, arm myself and battle my way to her hands that can melt the glaciers residing in my heart.

I write
to create a creased parchment of a map that I only can read.

Co-ordinates of where my fingertips, inner skin of my right wrist and ink have traced upon paper pages.

My first thoughts, a sweet whisper snuggled into blank edges of words amongst one dangerous idea- a f l i c k e r of a flame, soon to become an inferno.

Word strung together more carelessly than a six year making a beaded necklace. Yet they could not be more meticulously choreographed to spell out answers.
Only then I can remember the kind of places I go to when my sight is dimmed by something my chest and knees cannot quite take.

The slight, vague outline of your lips still
sting like nettles- short & sweet- on mine.

You taught me different kinds of hurt.
And it's the most valuable lesson of all.

On New Year's day, I kept writing the date wrong. My pen inked the year before. It bled through the next page.

The feeling was so very similar to how I used to wake, my lips immediately finding the your name.

Only to be replied by cold, flat sheets.