How she’s holding on
to her last bit of sanity,

I’ll never know.

But somehow,
she’s made an art of survival.

Camouflaging her emotions with words
and bathing in the beauty of written silence,
she’s an ivory goddess drawn on to a dreamer.

And even though she’ll never be the flower or the wine
that suits the taste of my aspirations of love,

I can’t help but feel the need
to be her knight in brass-washed armor
with my makeshift sword in hand
coming to her rescue and her young son.