She was a vision
fresh air blown south with
a cautious smile and a broken heart
long fingers–soft to the touch
longing to touch something she could believe
was real.

She was a mist
drifting through interactions
the way a mime may be made jealous–
silent motion on light feet. Was she
here? or just her contortions?
but those eyes!
emeralds poorly hidden behind tears
not yet fully dried,
anticipating tears
not yet fully cried
(for tears start first in the heart before finding their wings)

She was mine–
for a time.
those lips forming positive parabolas
without reserve or hesitation.
it was a drug incapable of inhalation
or ingestion, but I
felt it in  my chest and center.
I, addicted to see her work her ****** mathematics,
would do all to coax it out of hiding.

However.
behind it hid another.
the reason those fingers that had interlocked mine so perfectly
searched blind for something real.
the reason she blew like the southerlies–
refreshing for a time, and then ghost;
the reason those jewels glistened as if
held beneath water
like hidden treasure.

She was never mine. But
nevermind