Your glass eyes are always leaking tears, but I don't mind it.
The needle in my hand will always sew you back together.
Your stringy hair is cut in all the wrong places.
Still beautiful.
I don't understand why you always creep into dark, dusty spaces,
But I'm always here to dust you off.
No, you're not made of silk or velvet
Nor porcelain or glass.
You're made from pieces of old memories;
some ineffable others melancholy.
You, are simply a haunting piece of sublimity.