your skin is made of cosmic foliage —
voice that is mellifluous to my ears.
beneath your pulchritudinous image,
you're engulfed in pain for years.

i know you want to go back to those halcyon days.
love, you were irenic to your chaotic mind
because you know no one stays
and loneliness you only find.

you look up at a gloomy night sky
and smiled at a solitary coruscant star.
telling your heartfelt miseries to a butterfly —
you're a walking, breathing and talking scar.

i inscribe this poem to a quaintrelle
whose undeniably sturdy yet frail.