Needlework
apron strings
acetone flush
She lives in flesh memory
cheeks flared by a blush

Thoughts corrosive
eroded
derisive and wild
She spits hands and shakes
palms small like a child's

To write her with sense is to
betray my mind
To sketch her in recompense to
bestay her guise

Still, sought to put my hand to her
and sought to make her real
Fought and wrought, thus seeking and
burdened by her appeal

She didn't have to say a word:
a burrowed chin, trim knots

But for me to learn to trust myself
it seemed she had to stop.