Glass

She is
A broken shard of glass
Sharpened on the dusking sun.

She is
A cloud of foam
On the hypothalmus of my morning coffee.

She is
A leaf stolen from a tree
Of memories, that I am envious for.

She is
A sentence whispered by velvet lovers
In a veiled language I shall never understand.

She is
A dancer; alas, that
My honesty is awkward.

She is
A stone of abstraction, and I desire the
Idea of her. Abstractedly.

...

She is
Beautiful, and I hate her for it. I wish
She were discarnate.