Reaching

Oh Lord. She’s treading a tightrope, dancing with mania,

nearly a superstar. I’ve seen her thrice, fraught with

diamonds, tug-a-warring a dark force. I was close to see,

where she closed a book, eyes beaming glory. Her shelf

filled with poet-scholars, prose, even old rituals. She spoke

of such in passing, where marijuana charms, awoke a

nerve. We’re so detached, surfing surface screens, awake

and scattering at dawn. She’s addictive, sudden to

disappear, where scholars ponder a novel. She’s a Center

Piece, a touch of maze, struggling through selfhood.

I felt her, a pensive songbird, ever fulgent for hugs. Her

perform wafts upon a tie: What is such whetstone love?

Such splendor and crimson tears, captured in Polaroid.

She’s a gemstone, dreamlike, ever artistic, stargazing.

Such is trouble, to love an unreachable—the same as said

love.