She was delicate- even if it was in the slightest sense of the word.

Her world was formed from torn edges of paper, hand-coated in resin to hold itself together.

And leaning in,
I can start to notice the burns fingerprinted on her where the past infringes with the present.

But any heartache seems to only create
unspent passion.
Because when she was carved it was with
too much hip and bone,
too much fire in her veins
and smooth amber in her eyes.
Too much straight-backed confidence,
too much of everything
and not enough
all at once.

Tracing the lines would be an exquisite pain;
touching her but only feeling warmth, where it should be a sun on your fingertips

As if she's just out of reach..

but god, I don't want her to be.
I’ll run myself to the ground before I let the embers of us burn out.