rose girl.

has she always been that beautiful?
I don’t know.
our lives are two pieces of thread
knitted together from knotted skiens.
she is fraying from all the misuse,
but I look at her & see
the finished piece.
we are different, I am
the shade of purple in the crayon box
always mistaken for a deep-hue blue.
she is the color of her eyes that cannot be
melted into wax & boxed for play.
I would give her flowers,
but she is not a rose girl. she is
thorns & fallen leaves, September
or unexpected rain.
I’d call her beautiful but I think
that word is insufficient.
how do you remember
breathing, how do you archive
the tickle of a firefly in your fist?
I take her picture & still,
I cannot capture the clear-night sky
I find in her.


9 thoughts on “rose girl.

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