I met a girl last year.

Her figure formed from fog and mist,
Her lips made out of brambles.

She took me to the Foothills, sat with me and fed me.
I ate the bread she gave me,
And drank her bottled wine.

She looked at me and said,
“I love the way you laugh”
And so I laughed.

I was lost.
A forest is she
And I, a squirrel.

She rests on a bed of green
Her hair splayed,
Roots from a tall elm.

I don’t dare disturb her dreams,
I’ll sit and watch her here.
Just until she wakes me.

Her puddling brown eyes catch mine
And I blush a tender coral,
Mixed with a blue river down my cheeks.

For her heart is numb,
Bruised, but unfeeling.
From men too rough, blind.

And so she cannot, will not stay with me.
She must journey,
To find her heart a balm.

Upon goodbyes,
Her thorns cut my lips
And there, a scar remains.