I enter at the periwinkle in her neck,
There are no distinct lines,
Only sadness,  

She just is,
Tangled in the web of feeling
Like she belongs to someone,

And liking that,
Yet, she wants to be her own
Person.

I think I’ve hurt myself

The shadow of her,
Hollowed out eyes,
Black smudge for a mouth.

Grey lace filled with grace,
Covers the lower half of her breast,
Messy black hair,

She’s turned away,
The line from her jaw,
To cheek, to neck, to shoulder,
Gone.

I need fresh air

Magenta veins over her breast,
So light you’d never see.
She drapes herself over the bed.

She is troubled by the loss,
By the heaviness in the air,
It’s humid, and about to rain.

Her body is curvy,
She’s broken up into colors,
Her love is coming to a tragic, slow, close.

*Without you I’d die.