She is.

She's b e a u t i f u l,

illustrative strings of librettos waltz on starched paper

from underneath chapped lips and ink-stained fingertips

she passes time counting the caress of the second hand

eyes as empty as the broken glass-face.

a name is sighed,

and suddenly mud-dull eyes become burnt sienna:

love, fire, flames of desire sear at her irises

melt a hole in her icy walls and suddenly,

Pièce de Résistance is rekindled.

i stare at her script,

and i become green-eyed

[ she is everything i'm not and everything i wanted to be ]

* Dedicated to Juniper, my dear friend.