Fragile

she framed in a charcoal outline
the smoke and mirror eyes
that either drew people in
or shuttered them out

everything is so definite

she imagines herself as a bird,
perched and spinning,
observing,
perhaps something soulful like Keat’s nightingale,
or maybe something darker,
less likely to fade into the background,
like a scribbled crow from Van Gogh’s wheat field

everything is so definite

how much time had passed
standing in one place,
she wondered

I wish the wheel could spin backward –
I wish I deserved his forgiveness
I wish he could love me again

it became obvious –
the ones who were drawn in
were like moth to flame
and always perished in her fire

everything is so fragile

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