Her eyes make me long for the brightest fireball I have never glimpsed. It’s too pure to yearn like this. My eyes claw against my skull asking for her thendom, for the blaze she carries, oh so annoyingly. I will wrap roses and amandas around her chest; there she stills and feels the venom of the roses that scatter around me and her. I will make her lungs wear a crown made of baby breaths— her soft breaths extend my life. Her limbs, so soft, made of feather branches, I touch them, and they fall apart like torn pieces of deed I have been keeping in the back of my pocket for lifetimes— until I couldn’t. Why does she fall apart when I embrace her? I’m tracing her stomach and thighs, covering them in willows like her armors— her armors that she carries around, woos around, sways around. Like an ocean of deep bergs and stars, I want to trace them with my wrecked hands until I lose all my strength, until my gaze and my wit fall at her feet. I worship her till I die, Till I see nothing— nothing, nothing But Appollyon bashes and shoves the glimpse of her in my ribs until they are nothing but a mediocre branch about to break off a coast redwood that I withstand when it comes in her sight. I’m just passing. Just a fret. How come I trace the deity with miracles and longevity with my left specks of glitter and dust and ivory, and the sun lets me? I wonder at the shake of her head sometimes—maybe, Just maybe. Until maybe I am nothing but ashes. She’s fire. She’s light. She’s almost a faerie, And she’s never letting me dusk.