She kept her heart encased in glass Or elegantly displayed On a moldy old canvass For callers by of gilded Or passing note
Wrinkled skirt crumpled in the corner of the hardwood floor poised to take the stand and testify about the madness and the lines of demarcation, The hollow harrowing haunting harbringer of the haughtiness that once served her so well;
I thought I spotted her reflection in a magazine, soot stained pages outlining the continental shifts in her veracity and the keloid cracks running along the base of her foundation a wrinkled old romance novel in today’s latest fashion, pretension the wayward child of passion
In a new relationship that seems to be going too well, that moment when you look for the cracks in your lover’s story