081

the greatest care
was required,
so that things
might remain
incomplete.

.
.

080

the secret,
for those who watched her closely,
was to cradle both
what is and what isn't.

.
.

079

all her nights were liquid,
so that one might bathe
in the dark waters
of unknowing
or take comfort
in her reflection.

.
.

078

with dreams hidden
beneath wings
painted in the pure
tones of the void,
unknowing
a butterfly
pollinates the garden
of her sleep.

.
.

077

with blue sky for roof
and the horizon for walls
each cup an ocean.

.
.

076

her love
being so vast,
pity remained
unknown to her.

.
.

075

when all the gardens
have been razed,
and the fields of wildflowers
are all but ash,
she will be left with offering
the shadow roses
that grow in her veins.

.
.

074

each word
that crossed her lips
was first bathed
in the unsaid.

.
.

073

she placed
the occasional sign
along the path,
so that we
might be reminded.

.
.

072

weary,
we came to rest
in the mundane.

.
.

071

by knowing her,
even truth
was no longer
needed.

.
.

070

those who couldn't be alone
found themselves in the strongest light;
one from which even their shadow
could find no respite.

.
.

069

countless upturned palms,
offering their light to the sun.

.
.