from a distance, she is

plain. unremarkable,

genial sweeps of long, dark hair and

pale skin, an unassuming slope

of nose and cheek. slender,

curves that are few and far between, faint

voice, sweet smile.

oh. her smile is

kind of cute, actually.

it sort of happens and, something

leads to another? or whatever,

and just a little bit closer, she

is not that unremarkable. isn't she? looking

at her, straight on, lip bitten

shyly, she is quite different from simply

"plain." yes, there is something in

apple cheekbones and piano fingers and

sparkling teeth against soft, bowed lips;

something fresh and sweet and worth

a closer look, perhaps.

and then, close enough to taste

the warmth of her breath, glittering against

the air of frosty days, she is lovely. even

breathtaking.

her eyes are cut into perfect almonds, curving

up into soft, crescent happiness. the feather of

her eyebrows, gentle, the slant of her heart-shaped

jaw, divine --- just,

flawless. and god, songs

could be written about those

innocent, gorgeous lips; the careful cut

of her cupid's bow, like a sheath full of

wine-colored arrows, rich and hooked up

at one end. her mouth is so expressive, a

Duchamp's ready-made, almost like it

was made to stamp deliciously

soft kisses against.

her hair is beautiful, gently framing the creamy

canvas of her skin; shimmering rose-gold in

the sunlight, silky and tangled in wild,

needy fingers. and when she pulls it back

to--- well--- well,

the world ignites in brilliant color

and she is exquisite.

falling in love with her

looks

exactly like this.

vivid and shining and

blind. to reality.

because one day, it is too close. and then

her skin is flushed teacup-pink, first,

then angry scarlet. and she bites

her lip so hard that it begins

to bleed. her eyes are sparkling

with tears, bright and unseen. her fingers

are so cold against unclothed skin

and love is so

saccharine and so

blind. and nothing is understood anymore,

just longing for the bliss

hidden under layers of sightless

want.

and those loveless fingers push

back. eyes full of frosty-lashes and

bitter tears, he steps back. and back, and

back, until he is weeping, blinded

by the bleeding crimson in

his own chest.

from a distance, she is plain. hair

cut short. lips now chapped. eyes

dark. unremarkable smile. there is no

wonder in her laughter, maybe not even

a ghostly tugging in

his heart. no closer.

and he is too far away

to see that her eyes have never forgotten

how to love him, never learned how to fall

out

of love.

and he is too far away to see why she

pushed him away that day

and, today,

he is too far away to care.