Deeming herself crippled, she crawls from the crack in your skin ,chasing herself from the shadows, yet continuously failing to let you in. someday she whispers, while you hold her from a distance, yet someday always seems too close while remaining relatively far. Those words, alight with intention seem to disappear as quickly as they rise and with every passing breath of a tomorrow, (empty although theres always something left) will linger in your curtains, soft as the light which even throughout the winter remains a warm comfort, a yesterday for every day she lay, (despite her beliefs) perfectly against your body. A pure lie as flaws outlaw the concept of perfection, yet the deception never felt so tremendously inviting. In one word her entire entity is summed up; skeptic, but from within your window frame, standing beneath the oak tree which prosperous despite the many reckless nights that left its roots subjected to the fatal aftermath of your poison, you manage to uncoil the vines masking the wall. Your talent for the demolition of man made creations somehow convinces her to cave as your artistic beauty reworks her mess into perfect believer.
