Reassembled in dark

gray perfection,

pixelated so much like

a beautiful sunset,

unlike this, and that

this

but never

that.

She used to lie of

scary stars haunting her,

the frozen suns in cold

winter snowdrifts,

unwinding like a coil,

springing into paces,

into places like this,

her heart broken like yet

another

tear in the fabric we call

time,

and scented with a dusty

potpourri.