What of her face?
Her insensitive hair of earthly red talks to the wind.
And her throat advocates deep shades of green and brown;
she sings the most somber Radiohead songs.
(She has substance)
Her careless yellowed arms elegantly carry her backwards
through the latest holocaust.
The fabricated pale broach that adorns her chest
is her only possessive feature.
When she stops to hear that golden heart beat extravagant melodies,
my footsteps will recede into hers…
Manipulating violent violet, she’s not leaving until her stomach
is free from lingering intoxication.
(It is so sweet, so disorienting)
Her skin, the lightest tonal pink,
is only there to manipulate my eyes.
That blood of hers, as black and suspicious
as the first signs of Gothic architecture, is unnaturally calm.
She has reckless thighs wrapped in tattered denim, in time itself;
why has she gone this far?
(You are not there)
Her bones, the palest brown, grow vain
as she seeks to renew what she once had.
Ankles becoming erratic, she stumbles through a neon haze of velvet
into the beauty of another time.
(Do not touch her, she is drier than sand)
Her delusional bare feet
enter
the iridescent aqua bath,
stepping over eloquently designed roman tiles.
(They are impassioned red and aged white)
(They are just like you see in old period cinema)
She is immersed, in sharp tones, and at peace.

When she rises from the bath, she is anchored in reality
by the white lace around her body.
With pupils of dried blood, she retreats,
but she does not waver from the gaze that we share.
She steps out of the pale warm light,
(How can a day seem so perfect?)
her calculated steps retreat into the purple shadows
where she will wait.
Obscured by the thin patchwork of grapevines,
I am left to choose what is next.

Through those very layers lies that which I seek,
and the reality of the situation couldn’t seem more distant.
(You are not there)
(It did not happen)
(She is not there)
(She is a caricature)
(She is myth)
And yet, she breathes.