I am not a gentle breeze on a sun-kissed face,
I am not water-color sunsets nor autumn's harvest moon,
but the rush of darkness that creeps upon the
corner of your eyes after you've drunk too much.
The naked tree limbs & ugly birds that hang on them.
I am a broken window in December and tattered shoes
at the end of February because they have come this far is
astounding, so its hard to imagine wearing anything different.
My skin dances with the shadows under my eye-lids, & mixes
with the light at the corner of my rouge lips. I smile even when
I am weary of people, who wants to make me normal.
Perfect paradoxes & poignant moments are profound
& I apologize for my awkward sadness but not for the storm
that beats in my ribcage. You may get see the flash of lightening
but never will you be close enough to hear the echoing thunder.