she is

she's always lived in between,
in grays,
and hesitation,
and dreams.

there is more to art, she says, than just technical ability.
and so i make my words t a k e  u p all this s p a c e so no one see how hollow they are,
[how hollow i am]
whilst hers--

                             inky hair and parchment skin and candle-lit eyes;
                             watch her cadenza crescendo and split a p a r t at the seams,
                             each note and simile and metaphor and feeling
                             a thrumming baseline in her head
                             as her muse tangos with shadows,
                                 and makes love to light.

i am a streetlight amongst the backdrop of a meteor shower.

for thedreamer

brainstorm

i don't want to embarass you and i'm not out to impress but
       you're the kind of man cummings and bronte and austen and duffy are
       inspired by
                          you make my muse dance, with her flaxen
                          silver entwined hair and opal eyes containing
                          an aurora, she dances to your words as they
                          rain down on my psyche. featherlight touches
                          make her howl and laugh airily with glee, fingers
                          stretched as far as they can go with ink running
                          down her face as something rushes along my nerves
                          like liquid lightning lighting up her maelstrom sky

she whispers a thousand words into my ears and my hands can't keep up, words flying across my screen,
across my napkin
           my paper
           my skin,

and there's barely enough t i m e left in the world to write barely enough for you.

you will, you will, because

[hers-yours-our]