The sand breathes shallow
limbs away, gentle
elegance as he refers
me cynical.
I correct him…


There is beauty, natural, gold
and those
drawn to romance…

I used to be one of them.

Like the moon waiting for the sun to circle.

You have to fall
before you fly- I'm still
waiting for my wings.
You risen from me strong
as the crest sails across
the Cretan Sea.

Cynical – you would not
aspire to be, but it broke
like the ruins, the only
constant I remain to see.

And I would've held you forever,
as he claims in bloody English
“discovery of elegance in taking risk”.
I hear there is reason.
(we were reason in chaos)
I, your beautiful disaster
wavering between fact
and fiction when you
turned my reflection upside down.
And he thinks he loves me.
Far from pure I strain
to show him sides you never should have seen.

Whispers walk each day
by which I pray you feel the hopeless;
the drowning
for the better side of fear
before you turned your back
on me.
And I breathe nights
in thirteen breathes while he holds
true to romance.
Waiting for me
to come to my senses.

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