He says that she is lemon ripe with
juice running down her throat;
she tastes like summer in his mouth,
though autumn auburn hair runs through his fingers
and snowflakes shatter in her eyes.
She can't be just a single season, and
it looks as if spring is at her fingertips;
she brings to life everything, anything ,she touches.

He wants her so much it kills him
on the inside, outside, every side of him
pulses for her touch; if only she would
want him like he wants her, his very own
untouchable transforming girl.

I look into his eyes and think of how
I am not so beautiful, how I am
less than what he sees in someone
much more amazing than I could ever be.

I am only ink stained and coffee drenched scribble,
scratching words on dry pieces of
any sort of long ago trees and sometimes
even my skin, but my tattoos are vice
compared to the smooth curves of her cheeks and
arms so free of any discrepancy that
I want to rip away at my skin and forget I feel,
refuse to remember what I've been taught
and just grow a pair of mirror wings that echo
as I try to fly across the boundaries of
what never was and always will be,
nothing and everything gliding through
my skin and hair so mediocre,
so lacking in any sort of beauty whatsoever.

But I smile and say it will all
turn out all right and everything will
end up how it's supposed to be;
love will come to you because it never
came to me, and he forgets me all
the time but I always think of him.
It doesn't really matter when my
fingers are crossed in lies just like
my lips that must taste of dead leaves
and broken dreams because they've been forgotten
and so have I.

Maybe to someone I will taste like apples
and have the life of spring in
eyes that might someday sparkle;
maybe they will see the summer sun
in my skin so faded and the color of
icy earth in my garden soil hair.
Maybe he was wrong and I could be
his very own untouchable transforming girl;
or maybe he was right, and I'm just
mediocre and unmemorable.