Her back like a sunset sitting crouched in a cold tub,
terrified and disillusioned. I watch her from the doorway,
unable to paint over her purples, yellows, and blues.
I watch her trembling deer legs tumble over the linoleum
and all I can think of is that last thing he said to her as
she slipped away.

"How could we have disappointed each other this much?"

I was there, watching her petals wilt, her body slipping into
a vase for him every night in the bar as he looked at a simpering
Los Angeles girl over his beer glass.

Sometimes love comes in like the roll of a fresh spring breeze
over a mountain, sometimes it's like a knife twisting in your
gut, but sometimes love can make you believe he's worth
tearing yourself up.

I pulled her up from the bathtub, crumpled and wilted and tired
and heartbroken. I brushed away the tears and smudged eyes,
and let California's sunshine shimmer on her skin, I opened
all the windows in the world for her,

just to let the right love in, to sweep up the insecurities,
and only leave strength in its place,

and as she tried to thank me, I put my hand on her
heart and said, "You've got two eyes, two legs, two arms,
but only one heart. And someone out there has the pair."
I held her hand to my heart, "But that pair will stop beating
then moment you let yours stop."

And I watched her wash her face, and heal the bruises,
her smile returned and wobbled, and finally I stopped
looking into mirrors to remember what pounded so steadily
and so strongly in my chest.