& in this resonance of self-mutilation,
beneath crystallized windowsills & broken needles,
I found redemption.

                  every Sunday evening her image is spilled in front of my very eyes.
I can taste her tender soul & caress her juvenile smile;
she whispers my name, succumbing.


    & I see her; through her.
She lies beneath silver linen & broken atmospheres.
She's wisdom in blinded eyes.

                                      I exhale.



& as I glance deeper into the reflecting abyss I find myself in wonder;


           Is she who I search for,
or is she who I sense to be?



                            .... I still wonder, who is she....

                    guess I'll never know.