Her skin is an ivory icon to Odin bleached pallid by the sun, perched on by two ravens that harken darker than:
Her onyx skin baked by the cool light of the moon in the savannah, howled at by hyenas engrained with the elegance of giraffe neck novelties.
Her skin is kissed by the Tuscan sun tumbling toward the horizons that hang at her hips,
lips licked by solar flares stinging more fiercely than her absence when she’s set her sights on seeing other heliotropes.
Rice paddy waters waded through by familial workers, her skin is a jaundice jade that placates in the stead of satiation, she fills the belly and starves the soul – feigning revolutions to try and keep in control.
Her skin is freckled in constellations, Orion or Osiris aiming directly at my heart-ache, sugar plum fairly consolations for a fault-line.
She loves me.
She hates me.
She hates that she loves me.
She smiles despite the hurt she’s harboring in her manifest densely because what if wonderfuls in the wings aren’t rational against the love of the good man setting the stage.
She cries cold tears that creep out her ducts despite herself, brave face bravado failing the unfortune swimming in my sad eyes.