In her over sized sweaters, that are worn so very often.
She illuminates the meaning of beauty, the way Christ arms are spread out over looking Brazil. When the sun is rising I know he has given her a gift in the sky for her gentleness. The way she cradles her cup of tea as if its the last thing she will ever see. I love her more then smoke likes to be mysterious, passionately the way a harmonica player grips his favorite interment in eternity.
By now I’ve probably traced over 100 out lined hearts with my finger tips on her skin. If she ever wonders Why I press down after, Its my way of giving her pieces of my self hoping they’ll sink there way into her chest spreading phone cord wires connecting our souls so they can jostle between the no you hang up first game, whisper the story of how we fell in love and so she will have me on lonely nights. The piles of random bobby pins scattered around her room, reminds me of the time I counted those tiled walls one for each flower that has bloomed in the remembrance of her smile ….there wasn’t enough tiles.
If reincarnation is true, I’d bet she would come back as a graceful swan, everyone else would be owls, eyes spread open at the breath taking sight of her..grateful for the ability to turn our necks around to catch one last look at Gods beautiful creation.