Sure, she was
pretty.
Pretty as a doll.
Porcelain skin,
Stoic,
elegant.
Everyone said so;
therefore
everyone knew so.
But,
she was never beautiful.
Never having that smile that soars across your face, reaching the rising heights of your cheeks,
heat flowing through the cracks of your skin made from memories passed.
Encircling your eyes, forcing the green leaves to wither,
facing the tight chill of another winter.

Eyes awaken, olives on the branch
Skin turning fiery now… it’s laughter!
A shuddering of skin
juddering and jiggling
Cracks are forming where sapphire squeezes out and down the mountainside, leaving its trail.
Youth is wasted on the young?
As if youth is something to be owned.