Such
beautiful pain, articulated in gestures, as hewn as diamonds, a simile for
prose. Oh the figs of her life—to hear her speak, a metaphor for writing; and
that is, the two are one, flooded with therefores,
a woman as a furnace. She nibbles the pears of verbs, a terror for understood,
beating through his chest; and that is, the holiest pain, to die five wounds;
in which are smiles, to touch for afterwards,
to peel his grapes.
She
handles with grace, a private addict, where none can tell—unless for keenness.
She feigns as heartless, a tear for sensitive, to filter regrets; and that is,
to hold him through barriers, the ebb of a webbish life; and that is, the past
dreams, to fib through nibs, to finally confess—the stress of fears, kneeling
in showers, to baptize pain. Oh her favorite soul, adrift another continent, as
near as fevers: the ghosts of frights, the nights of passion, an effort to
laugh.
We
love her, streaming through lectures, writing a memoir; and that was—but barely
enough—up and ‘til—the phantoms blew winds; and that is, her inner vase, a
reservoir dripping, the heartache of progress. We see her, the neatness of
years, a corporate star—the owner of ladders. He’s loving her, a partial
stranger, to give for all; where egos mourn, yearning for treasures, to finally
utter the chasm.
