Her hair:
  is the wind itself, a tumbling, wild,
  beautiful thing, soft through my
  fingers like the leaves of a tree
Her eyes:
  are candles; soft, glimmering candles
  that light a dark room, that beckon
  and call with mischievous warmth
Her lips:
  they are like holly berries in winter;
  bright red and sweet, hidden behind
  leaves and concealed under frost
Her smile:
  is the sun breaking through the
  clouds on a gloomy day, splintering
  into rays and touching the earth
Her skin:
  is the paper on which she writes her
  story with bruises and ballpoint
  pens and smudged red lipstick
Her touch:
  it is an electric shock, a paint-
  brush to my art, like raindrops
  falling onto my arms and face
Her voice:
  is the ocean crashing against the
  shore, wind chimes tinkling in the
  breeze, a sigh, a gasp, a sonata
Her laugh:
  is joy; a piece played on a fiddle in
  the middle of a cobblestone square
  while people dance jubilantly to it
Her words:
  are written in cursive on my mind, a
  beautiful, tragic poem, an unfinished
  sentence in her lovely handwriting
Her love:
  is a warm blanket in the winter, a
  mug of hot tea; like jumping into the
  cold, salty ocean; it is a lightning strike,
  a drunken state from which I cannot
  escape, a blissful euphoria
Her destiny:
  is not mine; it is far away on a
  train somewhere with a camera and
  a map and a touch of apprehension;
  it is my quiet house and my cold,
  empty bed and lonely, broken soul