god do i think i love her
lord do i want to hold her
feel everything that makes her so bold
striking and evil and red
where now she is so keenly radiating
a powerful and tiny joy
before she was so sharp
so dark
years crawl beneath primeval distances
still her scent remains prominent
i was eleven years old when i first saw her
a flower in her hair, a buttoned blouse
i sketched her every day
enigmatic attire
she adored
two years pass and i am in her basement
2am, face painted white and red
we watch Moulin Rouge
and we talk of moons and suns
and in the morning i use her shower
for the day, i would have her scent

she is deeply gone and will i remember
her gracious form
and flirtatious laughter
her glasses and her tap shoes
and her will
a girl who outreaches her own arms
she is soaring today
mythological in word
in her voice
in her skin
in her black nail polish and biker rings
in everything
that everyone hated her for doing

in her