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As limp as a rag doll and as pointed as a double edged sword,
her artful behaviour deceived.
More grand than plays and more colloquial than lunch at the cottage,
she played the piano with a skill that would make your spine tingle
in a very satisfying way too satisfying,
much too satisfying for aristocratic taste.
Her destination had cracked walls.

One foot hits a hollow wooden stair.
He touched the piano when nobody was home
and remembered when
her voice scuttled across marble tiles,
"We own different silver, we eat off different china. Our clocks aren’t synchronized. Our children don’t have names we both like."

She looks at him with the vigour of a broken tear and
one can think, just for a moment, that perhaps she has a shard of mercy within her.

"I don't bother crying when I'm already in the rain."

He used to pretend that dewdrops had wings
that they just didn't use, and would
fall endlessly in pools of contempt and spite,
stirring a month’s worth of dust.
Those grey mornings, green bottles cracked beneath his bare toes,
as he drowned in memories.

Their fingernails had been etched with dirt, and smiles laced in peanut shells,
and their grins innocently wide for photographs in the sandbox.
He had always known that she wouldn't die a bitter old hag,
but a beautiful, elite woman of class who died
to the sound of clinking martini glasses.

He planted a thorny garden below his window,
threw away the top hats and splintered the dancing batons.
The broken bottles had turned to sand when,
on a morning when the birds chirped an ambiguous song,
the flute summoned him to her departure gate.
Teacups, once broken, mended, and the shingles on the creaky roof righted themselves.
When he found her, she smiled.
"The sky cried for you, but you are mine."

Hey All! I'm trying to submit my poetry to a creative writing class- what does everyone think? If you wouldn't mind giving me some constuctive criticism, I'd really appreciate it. Thanks! :)