She is sacred geometry,
but boundless, without the lines.
Within her is a black lake
not of sorrow
but of so many colours they form black when combined.
She is a perfect circle
but jagged,
pointed, somehow,
in intention and form.
A glinting silver blade
crafted to cut a thousand times and never once draw blood.

And I stare at the ceiling for what feels like decades
wondering why I could never seal her glaring, bleeding blanks,
knowing she could never love
the way I have and always will love
Like a solar flare that lasts a lifetime.
Like a sigh at daybreak.
Like the way one would cling to their last breath
or the way one would draw their first.