She sweeps. She keeps. Her music, unfolded of ivory pages in her heart. Sheets written with notes, both curled and straight. Love is of a porcelain structure. Though, she burns the pages in her conceit. She burns the paper for what she leaves. A heart, left behind, finding no need, no cure to her endless state of being blind.
Her cries, a case of pure rejection. To the stars, they echo. From the moon, they return. For more tears, to be inside of the places she burns herself when there is no sun, being those habitable parts to caress. Between legs, then along the curved nature to breasts, everything of her will always burn. Everything of her, though not always her own, ignites. Just as the pages that send small sparks upwards, same with the fireflies of the night, there is still no glimpse of something worth remembering. Though, she keeps. She keeps lighting the match to burn the forest between her legs. Just that great flame. And then, only ever the fade.
Only ever the retreat, behind a curtain for her pleasure. Twin moons for her seated self, with two pillars of frosted white to be spread, then of feet to hold her valid reach, then of hands to extend towards the waters. She lays, to reckon herself crossed. A detachment of unattachment, to a departure from something never there, leaves her cold and alone in the blaze.
Blue-blinding bliss, with her scent waving the night into extension, within the fertile mounds of her ivory skin. A sculpture so death-like, given life only when it regresses from its stillness well-outside of a kiln, to the wetness of being moldable and changeable in her own hands.
Flexible, bendable, though never manageable.
Sorrowful, sinful, while never grateful.