There’s a moving portrait above my sink,
her cheeks are pudgy,
her skin is pink.

Her eyes are melting,
teeth fallen out,
her noose is bleeding
a river of doubt.

The portrait screams,
she cries for aid,
she tells a dead god,
that he could have stayed.

No oil,
no paint,
no canvas,
not a brush;
Instead this portrait feels and aches,
her rawness still to gush.

Yet dusk is dusk,
and by dawn it is dawn.
You may look for such a portrait,
to find that it is gone.

Not a finger nail in sight,
not a single clogged hair.
It begs but one question:
Was she ever really there?

She keeps her feelings tucked away,
Like her hair, behind her ear, before a kiss,
It sometimes comes undone, but it only makes her more beautiful,
As if such a thing was even possible .
Nothing is more reassuring than her presence,
Nothing more rewarding than her smile,
She smells like the earth after rain,
Ironic, her eyes gleam like lightning in a quiet storm.
She is all that is good in this world,
She soothes your soul with just one word,
Like a cool autumn breeze she relaxes you,
Her hugs, the definition of kindness, the embrace of an angel.
Her raven color hair absorbs all light,
That then shines from her heart,
She lives within your dreams,
Because that’s the only place you’re not alone.

My love ~

Please forgive me,
for I am not worthy of a minute of your time.

My sweet ~

Please forgive me,
But how can your precious heart be so sublime?

My all ~
I hope our souls will find each-other, in the great divine