she is the dresden rose of delicate porcelain
blooming from the banisters in the staircase
of your ribcage, the ivy vines sprouting in
the pages of your spiral-bound journal
whose writings are tattooed across your spine.
she's the music you hear lulling you to sleep
in the middle of the afternoon where
the silhouette of the croissant moon
crawls just above the powder blue horizon.
you kept a photocopy of her candi(e)d smile
inside the back pocket of your ripped jeans,
hoping to catalogue her memory in
the reflection of a a new dawn.
she's the ghost of rain crashing on
rooftops and windowpanes and
even the storm couldn't drown out
her gunshot screams.