She stands on
the tippy top of
a grand canyon
miles above
looking down
to a ground
where I plant
my heart
hoping to dance
and be a part
of the world’s art.

Her poetry floats
across the gaps
like an echo,
and I gasp
as I grasp
the meaning
of her repeating
syllables.

She leaves me
grieving gently
longing for
a connection,
not a lustful *******
sprinkled with
the touching
kind of affection,
but communication
and shared appreciation
of each other’s
poetic creations.

She does not see me,
retreating
from life’s beating
whilst beseeching,
then dying alone.