Crying

                                                (for Robert Frost)

She cries because of you, each word, a brick piled upon her back, building a smoke stack of passion, the fumes of which she struggles to contain, under the illusion that each verse brings her comfort, like an old dilapidated mansion she crawls into during the most bitter storms.

She carries you to bed, whispering with you the way a child might nightly prayers, pondering over the meaning of each phrase, worrying over those she doesn’t yet completely understand, your words dropped into her head like coins, her mind a wishing well of pale dreams you’ve created in her, dreams too unrealistic to ever come true. She believes the promise of each misguided rime, her fingers caressing your poems, her thin lips repeating them over until they dance on the bedsheets like lively little pixies poking fun, her shaky fingers turning each page until she drops off, gaze still glazed with your visions that have become her visions, and then dreams, although later, when I pick your book up off her sleeping chest and kills her brow, I find there, the deepest of frowns.