late english rose

Her words were soft and pink
Like the petals of a late english rose
She sees herself in the backdrop of every 80s teen movie
Her hair flows orange against the fading sun, and
she looks at me like I have all the answers.
The yellow warblers on her dress
match the quirks of her smile, she’s
everything you’d want to be if you were
a girl’s girl.
I look in the mirror and I find no trace of her,
just lines of faded mascara
and premature frown lines.
But she stands behind me,
and that is enough.

M.

She, part 2.

Every so often, this one person will come along and bring a presence that just seems to calm the sea.
Her eyes-
The sway of her hands.
Her footsteps –¬†molded¬†to the shape of the rock beneath.
Her breath; breathing in salty, out with fields of hope.
There is something about her lips…
The curve of sensuality that matches the waves.
Her violent, thrashing anger – matching the elements –
Given and taken away just as quickly.
Something about her movement, her steady gaze at the deep blue with her bright yellows.
Something about the way she holds out for tomorrow while grasping tightly to today –
There’s a certain darkness in her whisper – the fight or flight in her veins…
Something, about everything, about she.

M.

She.