She wears the sun on her index finger,
Though it almost sears a hole through her skin.
When she lifts her hand and lights the sky,
Stars descend upon her lap in desolation.
My malleable bones, which ache and tremble,
Tighten, they ripple with nervous tension,
Struck spiritual, like the statue, into silent reverence.
She proclaims, makes claims from her rock, on high,
Anticipates the depths of my real affections,
But reels them in and dabs me with noiseless cotton,
To slip my secrets into the darkness,
With all the ease of her practiced years.