There is a princess laying at the foot of my bed.
Her bare legs curl against her abdomen, t-shirt
far too big to suit her precious frame. Sepia skin
painted with shadows, the candle an enviable
star at her fingertips, chocolate and bleach, a
bouquet of curls, tumbling down her neck, tracing
her chaste lips, darling brown eyes curiously watch
the habitual motions of my hand. When she speaks,
an Edenic galaxy is born. The unloved creature blends
into the oceanic sheets, wondering if her name shall
ever be released from the prison of my throat. As her
locks tread across the sea, a cello faintly screams
from the corridors outside our private domain.
Moonshine produces an ebony lunette against her
freckled wrist. A requisite spark pulses through my
bloodstream, hungry, unsatisfiable. Under her chin,
her palm is tucked, knuckles hiding the glimmer of
her smile. Roulette's streaming through blue veins,
I exhale an inaudible syllable. Young, fragile, a golden
peony so easily crushed, her jaw tightens, flame
hoarding the honor of a caress against her glass
exterior. From so long ago, I remember our palms
meeting, how she tenderly asked me, mouth towards
the luminous sky, "Will it ever rain again?"
My chalk shade is stained with warm droplits, each
tear a premonition of a kiss only my euphoria's shall
endorse because in this low light room, she will
wilt into a porcelain mannequin. Even if she fails to
notice my lugubrious voice, I will continue to project
the sounds I once promised. "Darling, it is raining."
For you, I am raining.