The space she took in your bed, on your shelves, in the curses and the vows,
She hasn't been here, nor was she ever moving towards that direction,
You imagine the door she could walk through, the locks she wouldn't open,
The glances she wouldn't care to return, the loose garments that cover chapters she patiently learned,
She spoke of home and heavy promises,
But never to you,
She grows, filling the last pages of her people's books,
You paint her, you picture her,
She isn't clear but she is unforgettable,
You believe completely in her vision,
She knows things about you, about your death and about her desire to be your death,
You wait for her peace to bring you yours,
For the stillness of her mind to free yours,
Something isn't right with her, she isn't predetermined,
She isn't wind nor water nor an element of the changing sort,
Still, she isn't predetermined,
There isn't a thing on the planets nor skies that moves like her,
That dances with your art's rhythm like she does,
She flows with you, away from you,
Remember when she melted the black and red of you canvas,
She found love in your lines and detested the corners of the devilish margins,
She learned your craft from you and she mastered its perfect flaws,
Blame the times words weren't spoken,
Blame the splendor splatter of skin, the patterns of resistance,
Why won't she dance for you, flow towards you?
Was it the thought she overheard?
You couldn't tell if she was drawn or carved or weaved,
Did she step into your box?
Hollow out your venal lust,
You chase after the scents, the shadows, the colors,
You make out what her soul must look like,
She isn't sane, she isn't clever,
She is a fallacy, a fake,
She can't not see when her long verses cover your floors,
She can't not feel when she bends and twists to the indentations of your palms,
You touch the places she left for the stars to find,
You answer questions her path left discarded,
You believe, you know,
She refuses to linger around you, and why should she?
Your strung out desires are romanticize by your brush strokes,
But your flesh demonizes passion itself,
Your reality kills your art, and she loves only your art.