She walked out of the watercolor storm of a fresco
Like a cowl-bound form in a light drizzle of rain,
Her mosaic tiles of ancient lovers’ eyes, ceramic-borne,
Just as her hips held the curves of the urn, kiln-fired,
The coiled heat of Greece still stinging through her flesh.

For her, the treetops had been the summoners of storm,
In kind, she poured down the wet grove of her hair, electral,
Pantheress of humid breath and fanged flair of lightning,
Tamed once in the cloudy cage of Pentelic marble of the Parthenon.

But the world piled dust before her, baiting with its groveled roads,
For her black mullings, much-tasted rain, and heaven’s leaves to fall.
If only the Michelango-to-come had carved the clouds of her
For the light to remain, shining its centuries,
Then maybe the thunder would have been left undone.

I count one, two, three and I can't believe
We've made it this far; still such a dream
Somehow, you treat me like a queen
Look, my love, at what we've achieved:
Moments together we can treasure
Conversations I'll always remember
All of the love and all of the laughter
The closest I've been to "happily ever after"

there's no one quite like it
the voice in your head
it tells you you're pretty
than tells you you're dead
there for you in silence
there for all the pain
it picks up the pieces
it cut out of your brain

my body shivers from the pleasure
my heart breaks at the thought
my sin takes me whenever
my morals shot