She was given to ambedo,
to psychic tides and reckless flights
of premonition.
She ripped clouds from the sky
and addressed them without regard
to their eminence.
She sewed poetry into the hems of her skirts,
her eyes voracious, her smile distant.
She, who was herself a nightmare, gave rise
to the most dazzling dreams
and I cared for in a fashion.
–
She never misbehaved, her defeated frailty,
her heart the color of blackberries.
She danced the fine line between
suicide and mendicant.
Her sorrow fell upon me like a switch.
I faltered, crumbled and humbled
by my misguided devotion.
She never spoke in prose
and I never witnessed her
without diversion or construct.
The realest people we know
are often false.
mindlovemisery 