sitting cross-legged on her bed,
the early morning sunlight brushes its fingertips over her,
embracing her with the heat of the solstice
and pirouettes of cigarette smoke cast soft blue strokes
across her sunburnt, speckled skin

in the moment, she seems comparable to perfectly sculpted marble -
the statue of a grecian goddess, surely, standing steadfast in her beauty -
and i decide that she was sculpted to be admired, even when she cracks
she was made to exude a sense of grace and delicacy by the hands of a man whose muse was his first unrequited love
and to act as an ****** for every man who ever touches her

she has the eyes of an idealist, eyes that are a shaft of light in a beckoning storm
and her spine is a perfect, fragile curve, every vertebrae crafted with purpose
the tips of her hair pooling like corn silk against the small of her back,
with selfish, hedonistic desire, i long to touch her -
to touch her where all the thoughts that have ever danced through her mind unfurl into perfectly molded swathes of skin,
to touch the body of a goddess whose altar is a dimly lit stage, whose place of worship is down a whiskey bottle

and as she sits statuesque - (oh, yes, statuesque, that's the perfect word) -
i watch her shine brighter than anything ever has