She finds pleasure in how sharp
the thorns are,
in the way they tentatively wrap
and cling into her skin in ever
gentle, shallow piercings.
The colossus screams
in the frenzy of his midnight delusion.
They met in an emancipated hostel overlooking
the blue pink valley.
She into fashion design
and her an unpublished writer
and each a captive second
in the soul of the other.
The one had a meticulous richness
that she found
seasonally contrasted her.
“But then it was always only but a matter of nature,”
she said to her one evening
as the robin’s wavering song drowned
in the currents of the river below.
“So it is fixed?”
“And there is nothing that can be done?”
She set a gaze upon her leather brown shoes
and felt uncomfortable.
Time had imposed itself on them
and the moon forced her to sit upright.
A timid light was cast over her
that she mistakenly
Under the bright day the colossus sleeps.
She marvels at the stinging red bruises
all over her body.
The small rails of blood bring an