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always hers, though never 
exquisite violets and blues of twilight, 
also escort her melancholia 
and echo from inception 
to behind her eyes. in the autumn 
of her time, she assays her life to find 
she perches fecklessly on the verge 
of a precipice. she sniffs the magic 
and mystery that cling to them. 
she always knew but he had to learn; 
truly, there is not logic in everything. 
look what’s become of her; as the August snow 
on Mt. Quandary, she, too, is out of season 
and in darkness struggles to swim, upstream. 
desirable or not, the fascination 
between them reiterates and he remains 
the best thing that was never hers. 
09-14-10 
© tlp 2010