My woman is pictures of generalities, many ruins of half-truths, many rainbows of never-ending and many smiles of tomorrow. She is empty rivers and lingering kisses. She gives me redemption, she is my compensation. My woman is hollow, lost to diseases, bones and angles for her own reasons. She is fading like smoke, blown away like flowers, picked at like roses. My woman is the dimmed lights of winter streetlamps, the black colors of her thoughts and all the lies of yesterday. My woman is one part tangled within me and two parts hidden behind me. She is the sorrow of the skies and tears of memories she cannot erase. My woman flinches at the touch of man, she has been bruised to her core, she cannot breathe around her demons.  She finds her comfort within my femininity, finds safety within my weaknesses. She is lighting storms and broken stones, she is beyond repair but I mend her anyhow. She gives me aspiration and she is my only destination.  My  woman’s breath slows with every tick, her heart stops with every touch. She is not mine but I still hold her…she is not mine but I still love her, and she lets me until the day she can stand without holding onto my arm, until the day she will heal and I will leave. My woman is places you would never get, you cannot break the bonds of understanding. With every thought she reads inside me, I pick one part of her pain to rediscover…wishing I can be half as brave as her, wishing the stars could hold her captive, fill her soul with stardust. Maybe then her eyes would not be so dull anymore, maybe then she will be able to feel half as beautiful as she is…