There she lies, brilliant and exhausted;
limbs all mangled and strewn in the hottest places,
as if the sky was burning her skin with every breath,
or if the sheets, all low and rustled and tinged,
were plates of melted rock.
She is alone because she chooses to be.
From the place I am, the only perspective I have
is an artist's-
so I paint pictures of her sand smooth skin,
her obvious collarbones.
But, she does not appear as we imagine her-
outside the canvas she
lacks the depth and beauty we have given her.
Outside of the paper she is but a flat line.