Her hair:
is the wind itself, a tumbling, wild,
beautiful thing, soft through my
fingers like the leaves of a tree
Her eyes:
are candles; soft, glimmering candles
that light a dark room, that beckon
and call with mischievous warmth
Her lips:
they are like holly berries in winter;
bright red and sweet, hidden behind
leaves and concealed under frost
Her smile:
is the sun breaking through the
clouds on a gloomy day, splintering
into rays and touching the earth
Her skin:
is the paper on which she writes her
story with bruises and ballpoint
pens and smudged red lipstick
Her touch:
it is an electric shock, a paint-
brush to my art, like raindrops
falling onto my arms and face
Her voice:
is the ocean crashing against the
shore, wind chimes tinkling in the
breeze, a sigh, a gasp, a sonata
Her laugh:
is joy; a piece played on a fiddle in
the middle of a cobblestone square
while people dance jubilantly to it
Her words:
are written in cursive on my mind, a
beautiful, tragic poem, an unfinished
sentence in her lovely handwriting
Her love:
is a warm blanket in the winter, a
mug of hot tea; like jumping into the
cold, salty ocean; it is a lightning strike,
a drunken state from which I cannot
escape, a blissful euphoria
Her destiny:
is not mine; it is far away on a
train somewhere with a camera and
a map and a touch of apprehension;
it is my quiet house and my cold,
empty bed and lonely, broken soul