The biography of her pale flesh given over to the color of the blinds, the whispers of command. Written once just so, then abandoned with out a whim. Made one way then painted like another. Making the seeming so so unseemly.
The word play only got worse, a bad script tidied up by so much truth. Fact after fact filled the room, until there was no way to see the window. Details clotted the hallways, they stepped gingerly up the walls. Ever mirror stained with kisses. Every door held together with tape and whispers.
There are sentences about her bare skin, lines woven together for all her stretches and stitches. There are words that serve only to imbue her radiance in envious droplets of passion sweat. These songs wear her like a fever made of moonlight. This music is drizzled in thistle and appetite. The long lost promises, the far away lingering of imagined lovers. The truth of her story dressed only in shadows and stars.
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