She wears thick stockings and lace
More days than not. Whispers
To the willow trees, and records
Their every wind-swept secret.

Finds irony in the fact that she finds life,
In the dying autumn leaves. She craves
Empty moleskins and full coffee mugs in early morning.
She writes, until the sun is finished dying.

Its slow and painful march toward the horizon,
A perfect muse. I wonder,
Sometimes, if she’s ever actually finished
A poem, when more often than not
Those lonely words are left, lost

In the hands of us caretakers, us
Keepers of her secrets. Us few,
Whom she’s trusted.

I’ve kept every one. She never asks
To get them back, never seeks those words
From her, past tense. They might invade the space
Marked out and saved for her, present tense.

She spends her days spinning, spider web tales
Into tree branches at midnight.
Carves lines from her suicide note, into the bark
Like young lovers professing their affection.

She is the perfect intertwining of passion
And a subtle hint of detachment; it shouldn’t work.
But for her, of course, it becomes an art form, a new classic.

She will one day be mimicked,
By students studying the science, of faking smiles
And denying all accusations, without flinching.

She wears thick stockings and lace,
More often than not. She says
They’re good for hiding the scars.