little farthing one displays
peacock feather offerings...
satirical wit, caustic intellect
insatiable passion, ideals exquisite 
consuming eyes like moss-stone
composed of glimmering miracle
unwound unto precious gossamer dreamling
clandestine, slipped beyond and away
no trace, netherland of yesterday

and when he returns, silently
the sweetest of tears wet her cheeks
stolidly honouring the cellophane wish that
falls worn, rendered torn, each time he flies
toward sunsaturated dreams and saltsweetsky

should she never see his beautiful visage
again, she might survive this cyclic monsoon
threatened to overwhelm and drown in swoon
frame fallen bruised when soft sobs subside
should she never linger upon the dusky scent of him,
again, dreams would tumble about, undistrubed perusual
not to wake, shivering, bathed in realisation of 
that for which she cannot do a damned thing

love lies dormant upon exhaustion of soul
months stand amiss when, mournful, time ceases
days pass eventless, calm, lacking life's wonder
never would it be known were he to not return,
to not imbue her with reminders of the fantastical
and so, graced with blessing, rife with curse,
she delicately seperates and sifts that which remains within
questioning, curiously, how it is that when she said 'always'
so long ago, her entirety of being truly meant it