Leaving messages on foggy bathroom mirrors. Leaving lipstick crescents on the rims of tea mugs. Leaving the front door unlocked. Leaving, a lot.

Trace the scars at her back.
You'll find a constellation.
Trace her tears when it streaks down her cheeks.
You'll find a lonely river.
Trace her hair strands.
You'll find an aromatic flowerbed.
Trace her fingertips.
You'll find hurricanes and tornadoes.
Trace her soul.
You'll find yourself.

And as you so lightly traced my skin,
All I felt was your longing for the flame that once so relentlessly licked your fingers.
That passion that had ignited your lust,
was now smokey embers of a dying fire too damp to ever be relit.

Ophelia has
flower petals
growing beneath
her tongue, and
I can taste
honeysuckle
when I kiss her.

There are highways
in the grooves
of her hips.
I like to trace them,
and get lost
somewhere between
intimate whispers and
an unsteady heartbeat.

Ophelia has a
mocking jay stuck
in her throat, and
it sings to me
when she finds
herself stuck in
tangled vines and
dwindling
self-confidence.

She weeps at least
an ocean a day,
and that's more
than my diminutive
hands can catch.
I think I'd like to
spend a few eternities
exploring the peculiar
jungles of Ophelia.

The day before was so perfect
He’s always there just to protect
He sang her song, painted her face
He left her with such tender trace


She smiled at him, she admired more
All his good traits deep to the core
She dreamed to hold, to hug, to chase
He left her with such  tender trace


The day they danced in that grand ball
She never thought that she would fall
Unto his arms, to his embrace
He left her with such tender trace


And from the day that he was gone
She cried from evening up to dawn
She missed more of their fine, sweet mace
He left her with such tender trace


But moment would come to renew
The pledge and dream would still come true
There in her heart, there is a place
He left her with such tender trace.