she rises in the evening,
and the sunset paints her pink.
she shakes off the sleep
that hangs heavily from her eyelids,
and when the orange sky darkens,
she is alive.

the inky blue air shimmers with secrecy.
she smiles for the first time since waking.
how little, and yet how much the dusk hides;
for when the sun surrenders to the moon,
the waking are their truest selves,
set free by the mask of night.

you succumb my thoughts
as though my mind is a glass of wine
and you are a flask of poison.

refined beauty turned wild,
like poetry, but too rough around the edges.
eyes like gemstones,
but not pearl,
or ruby,
or emerald,
but dark onyx,
precious only to those seeking the rare,
not the valuable.
but when the surface cracked
where golden sunlight should've shined through,
i found my fists full of broken pottery
instead of your hands.
and when the paint was scraped away,
i realized that you were just a boy
who liked watching sunsets,
not a masterpiece.

i no longer have
much of a taste for those
unspoken words,
waiting, they turn sour
in your mouth
stagnant with captivity
until hesitation turns to dormancy
and the feelings go away
do you even remember the words you didn't say?
if so,
i'm sorry,
for how they must
rot.

i have been tricked into believing that
the answer lies on the tip of your tongue,
so let me be  forever a fool when I say that
we shared something for a moment there.
we tied the string and i can feel it connecting us,
even now.
but I don't mind playing your games,
like a dog being teased with a toy.
you know i'd rather be 10% yours
than you be 100% someone else's.
whether you decipher and analyze my tendencies,
I don't know.
but my eyes,
oh my eyes,
give me away every time.