Ideally she’s an addict

But that isn’t the right word

That conveys the daze

Which challenges her lungs and energy.

I’m drawn to her emotions

A runaway locomotion of late

Dictating her next move

Or rather lack there of.

Puking her world onto a page

Colours acting saviors

A Sharp construction messiah

An insight instructional guide to who I am.

I’m critical and analytical

A cerebral libran

Caught in a square web

Confusing me

While she’s ballooning away from we

Waiting for a sigh that breathes freed

Not me

She’s got it all.

Wishing she could walk into a room

Dripping in gold

I wish I’d told her she already does.

Transcending power to scour friendships to admirers

Tiring to watch.

Trying to force each notch into a space it won’t fit

To discover later she’s got a full scripted skit

Of nothing satisfying.