Stretched over your bones,
is silk-like skin, like porcelain.
And above your sculpted cheeks are
two eyes of a color, that,
I cannot describe.

Upon each bent fingertip
is a fragile piece of gold,
like everything you touch is
beautiful, solid, and sold.

Yesterday I opened up
the jar you trapped your voice in
and the notebook you left
your soul in.

But it felt as though I had lost you,
and I couldn't undo, what I did.
So I settled my loses, and,
tried to forget that you might exist.