She's

“She’s cinnamon on the tongue,
and deep lung air,
the space between heartbeats,
and dreamless seconds. She’s
gravity and bent light, years of inescapable
regret. She’s a bruised tattoo and a muffled note
sounding sad negation, baby skin, and
straight flush vertigo; queen high,
aphasia, and too much wine.
The beginning’s whispered word and
insomnia. She’s finish line sweat
and denied kisses, dew wet roses and ropes
bathed in starlight. She’s candle wax and
burnt offerings, a razor wrist, the atom split,
lightning dance and a tear of joy. She’s a child
tickled too long and quivering lip.
She’s dragon chasing
smoke raised in prayer, a C4 bunny,
three to a match and a bullet;
to whom it may concern, sucking
chest wound heartbreak. She’s
crime in a $4 T-shirt and yesterday’s
shorts. She’s her smile and walk,
cricket comfort and lumbering grace,
electrochemical shock therapy. She’s
the fast right hand captured in unnatural acts.
She’s unclean thoughts, and repentance,
salvation offered only in darkness. She’s
the better half of a timeless equation, π
factored past infinity, an easy answer
to an impossible problem. She’s unknown
and unknowable, an unopened gift
gathering dust, another man’s name on the tag.”

- Christopher L Jorgensen