her touch was rough
and unforgiving.
the burn of fire
hence, the sting of ice.
a ballerina gliding along the
calloused parchment
of her journal-
and with that i knew that she was beautiful.

her soul and poetry like a fairy and his bunny
so brooding and enchanting.
she was the symbol of
melancholy and grace,
epitome of the beauty of autumn
euphoria
and chills of a cold winter night
spent in halls
with loud cheers
and lonely slumber.

a beautiful disaster, they said
lovely, i replied.