Is this vessel best when its broken?
Is it more beautiful when bruised, beaten and battered?
Does it find fingers frantically pulling at the cells of the surface?
Are you seduced when she tugs the tresses away from the tomb?
When her breath rises in rapid distress?
Certainly the blue burns a little brighter.
Certainly the lip quivers and the bones shake so.
Certainly her matted hair muses of mutual maceration.
Certainly the sweat streaming from her pore praises the point.
Will these lines linger? Will they expand beyond my tightened brow? Will the corners of my mouth pull away? Will you forget me without the tears falling down my face? When they are all dried up…will I bore you, in the end? Will you leave me sitting here, alone…to pick of the pieces?
Will I always be broken?
And forced to find the beauty….alone.