She.

Standard

She

is like the winter sun at 14:00

scorching

if you’re still

futile

when you’re pacing.

She

is like an early morning smoke

polluting my insides

in places

I’d never been touched.

She

is like the abstract painting

hung in a lonely corner

of a flooded museum

unfathomable

until

lost.

She

is like the old photographs

you took at the highest hill

on that lonely night away from home

she gushes you with

memories

you wished you’d

left behind.

She

is like the diaphragm

of a rainbow

so distinguished

that she is

obscure.

For she

who is sorrow

is everywhere

and

wanted

nowhere.

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