A White Gerbera, lay neatly on my plate. That was the same day she was mine,
For a few brief hours. We held hands. We kissed. We surged.
Her eyes showed me what was real, and her heart fought every moment.
But her lips never lied.
Nor did her hands.
Nor did her eyes.
Not until she stopped kissing me.
Stopped touching me, and
Stopped looking at me.
So the fun in the rain, and the eventual pain all got mashed up
Into one feeling.
The wings and the stings became the same thing.
My angel, and my bee,
Didn’t stay with me.
So we destroyed with words, and poured black
Tarr over what was good. Over the red paint and the dreams and the
Hope.
And then there was nothing. But time doesn’t allow what was to be
Squashed. No.
Now there are words and small kind gestures, because
Underneath all the broken trees, and the snapshot memories
Is still her face. Her smile. Her eyes.
Her words.
The first night we met.
The picnic.
The meeting of lips in the fountain.
And the blaze of fire that left a scar on my soul,
Which will remain,
Until the ravens come to
Lead me away.
Two separate lives. Two separate loves.
Just the same memories,
Of the same shared minutes,
When nothing mattered except
That day.
That hour.
That minute.
She is an angel, with a bleeding heart, and tattered wings tucked
Carefully behind her mangled soul.
But she loves like a tornado and that is her blessing, her curse, and her gift.
Mocking Bird Down 