Why did she have to die so young? they asked,

as if they could ever know. They analyzed the circumstances

that took this woman of twenty-nine.

A needle once buried

and shared

had left its mark

below her skin.


He was put

on suicide watch

for twenty-four hours

after the news was given.


The world's most beautiful woman, he thought,

had been created for him!

How could that be!?

He marveled

at what they both knew when they met was destiny.


You could see it in photos,

the way they went together, as if they formed one greater body.

You could see it in the way they dressed like

and looked at each other.

Somehow, somehow, somehow... was the constant reaction

to their improbable miracle.


He always said, in his later days

(he couldn't claim they were wiser days, or that he deserved

the moniker, wisdom),

that it was his grave mistake

to use;

it would be with him forever,

even if he stopped;

it would always be

waiting for him around the corner,

waiting for him in his memory.


He took it in

now and again

and it did flesh out his unstable identity.

It gave him something to sing about.

It gave him a way to look at the world,

understand the world.

That itself was the tragedy.

Sometimes he wondered if he wasn't born

to do it, or what he would do without it.

It struck him, at times, it was like they'd been conjoined;

like a missing piece when he was born lay out in the world,

lay on the street, lay in his friend,

lay in the needle, the cure it contained;

there he found himself, once,

and only once - the rest of the times,

he paid.


Her earlier photos

showcased an irreplicably beautiful smile

that no doubt in real life must have stolen all the attention,

to the chagrin of her female friends.

Her cheeks were full and her hair ran wild;

that itself was the essence

of this bright young muse and artist

who chanced to find

a quiet man containing her complementary mind.


There are elements

of any pair

that only the pair can understand -

a lost, hidden language that only appears in the world

when they stand together.

That is the very treasure behind the gate,

and when we remember

them, and look at the smiling faces

we managed to capture,

we are beholding the garden wall.


He beheld his beautiful,

clean, free girl

spinning around him

one night when he happened to be

not in one of his finest moments,

told her never to see him this way.

But, discovered, she stayed

and met his wretched face with the dark, framed eyes he never tired of

what they contained.


He kept her back

from his grave mistake

but they had a manner

(more deeply, she)

for one to dive fully into the other

simultaneously

and try to meet

while each was coming out from the other side.


She could not hide

from or deny a

part of him a part of her.

She could not sit before this man, illiterate,

she could not fail to understand the window.


He protested,

cried not ever,

but his protestations sounded weak against the actions crying louder.


She craved not the high

(and neither anymore did he);

she craved to know and feel from in his skin,

the secret code behind his misery;

she yearned to walk

through all her man

and she entered

his one forbidden part

that nonetheless, for want of seeing the light,

pulled her inside.

It was not a cheap desire;

none could see what drew her in, but he

knew it was her devotion.

He felt all of her devotion,

like a secret never spoken,

thriving silently and throbbing at the center of their life,

only heard by them, like a word their love invented.

/

She did not try

to reach a high

(and neither anymore did he);

she tried to know

and feel

his life,

the secret of his misery;

she yearned to be

her man and she

became his last forbidden part

'fore either one of them could stop.

It was not cheap desire

pulling forward;

none could see what drew her in, but he

knew it was her devotion.

He felt all of her devotion,

like a secret never spoken,

thriving silently and throbbing at the center of their life,

only there for them to hear,

like a word their love invented.



Her parents dug for signs they missed

throughout her former life,

inside her modeling career,

low self-esteem,

her instability,

the tales that they invented to explain the incongruity.


They put him on suicide watch

the night she passed

from a complication,

left by the needle,

in her bloodstream,

in the beating heart that loved him.


It was said he never recovered

from the swallow

by the shadow

of a most uncommon power

wielded poorly by the young.

Ignorant to scientific

whims of spiritual accident

that prowl among the bright

like vacuums swallowing whatever falls beneath,

and inexperienced that they do not protect or favor

great potential, brighter lights,

no even closer to the opposite: they fall inside the moving indiscriminating hurricane

that passes through them uninvited.


Half a light went out with her

and there is no such thing.

The light that also burned in him

was given early.

How can age have hope to carry

such combustion into long-life love and comfort,

to the heights it sees before it?

Only accident can save it

just as accident destroys it

when the blind and tenderhearted

carry fire in their hands.

/

She craved not the high (and neither anymore did he);

she craved to know and feel from in his skin,

the secret code behind his misery;

she yearned to walk through all her man

entered his one forbidden part

that nonetheless, for want of seeing the light, pulled her inside.

It was not a cheap desire; none could see what drew her in, but he

knew it was her devotion.

He felt all of her devotion,

like a secret never spoken, thriving silently and throbbing at the center of their life,

only heard by them, like a word their love invented.


Why did she have to die so young? they asked, as if they could ever know.

They analyzed the circumstances that took this woman of twenty-nine.

A needle once buried and shared

had left its mark

below her skin.


He was put on suicide watch for twenty-four hours

after the news was given.


The world's most beautiful woman, he thought, had been created for him! How could that be!?

He marveled at what they both knew when they met was destiny.


You could see it in photos,

the way they went together, as if they formed one greater body.

You could see it in the way they dressed like and looked at each other.

Somehow, somehow, somehow... was the constant reaction

to their improbable miracle.


He always said, in his later days

(he couldn't claim they were wiser days, or that he deserved the moniker, wisdom),

that it was his grave mistake

to use;

it would be with him forever,

even if he stopped;

it would always be

waiting for him around the corner,

waiting for him in his memory.


He took it in now and again

and it did flesh out his unstable identity.

It gave him something to sing about.

It gave him a way to look at the world, and understand the world.

That itself was the tragedy.

Sometimes he wondered if he wasn't born to do it, or what he would do without it.

It struck him, at times, it was like they'd been conjoined;

like a missing piece when he was born lay out in the world,

lay on the street, lay in his friend,

lay in the needle, the cure it contained;

there he found himself, once,

and only once - the rest of the times,

he paid.


Her earlier photos showcased an irreplicable smile

that no doubt in real life must have stolen all the attention,

to the chagrin of her female friends.

Her cheeks were full and her hair ran wild;

that itself was the essence of this bright young muse and artist

who chanced to find

a quiet man containing her complementary mind.


There are elements of any pair

that only the pair can understand -

a lost, hidden language that only appears in the world when they stand together.

That is the very treasure behind the gate,

and when we remember

them, and look at the smiling faces we managed to capture,

we are beholding the garden wall.


He beheld his beautiful, clean, free girl

spinning around him

one night when he happened to be not in one of his finest moments,

told her never to see him this way.

But, discovered, she stayed

and met his wretched face with the dark, framed eyes he never tired of

what they contained.


He kept her back from his grave mistake

but they had a manner (more deeply, she)

for one to dive fully into the other simultaneously

and try to meet while each was coming out from the other side.


She could not hide from or deny a part of him a part of her.

She could not sit before this man, illiterate,

she could not fail to understand the window.


He protested, cried not ever,

but his protestations sounded weak against the actions crying louder.


She craved not

a high

(and neither anymore did he);

she tried to know

to feel

his life,

the secret code behind his misery;

she yearned to be

her man and she

became his last forbidden part

'fore either one of them could stop.

It was not cheap desire

pulling forward;

none could see what drew her in, but he

knew it was her devotion.

He felt all of her devotion,

like a secret never spoken,

thriving silently and throbbing at the center of their life,

only there for them to hear,

like a word their love invented.


Her parents dug for signs they missed throughout her former life,

inside her modeling career, low self-esteem, and instability,

the tales that they invented to explain the incongruity.


They put him on suicide watch

the night she passed from a complication,

left by the needle,

in her bloodstream,

in the beating heart that loved him.


It was said he never recovered

from the swallow

by the shadow

of a most uncommon power

wielded poorly by the young.

Ignorant to scientific whims of spiritual accident

that prowl among the bright like vacuums swallowing whatever falls beneath,

and inexperienced that they do not protect or favor great potential, brighter lights,

no even closer to the opposite: they fall inside the moving indiscriminating hurricane

that passes through them uninvited.


Half a light went out with her

and there is no such thing.

The light that also burned in him was given early.

How can age have hope to carry

such combustion into long-life love and comfort,

to the heights it sees before it?

Only accident can save it

just as accident destroys it

when the blind and tenderhearted

carry fire in their hands.


Why did she have to die so young? they asked, as if they could ever know. They analyzed the circumstances that took this woman of twenty-nine. A needle once buried and shared had left its mark below her skin.


He was put on suicide watch for twenty-four hours after the news was given.


The world's most beautiful woman, he thought, had been created for him! How could that be!? He marveled at what they both knew when they met was destiny.


You could see it in photos, the way they went together, as if they formed one greater body. You could see it in the way they dressed like and looked at each other. Somehow, somehow, somehow... was the constant reaction to their improbable miracle.


He always said, in his later days (he couldn't claim they were wiser days, or that he deserved the moniker, wisdom), that it was his grave mistake to use; it would be with him forever, even if he stopped; it would always be waiting for him around the corner, waiting for him in his memory.


He took it in now and again and it did flesh out his unstable identity. It gave him something to sing about. It gave him a way to look at the world, and understand the world. That itself was the tragedy. Sometimes he wondered if he wasn't born to do it, or what he would do without it. It struck him, at times, it was like they'd been conjoined; like a missing piece when he was born lay out in the world, lay on the street, lay in his friend, lay in the needle, the cure it contained; there he found himself, once, and only once - the rest of the times, he paid.


Her earlier photos showcased an irreplicable smile that no doubt in real life must have stolen all the attention, to the chagrin of her female friends. Her cheeks were full and her hair ran wild; that itself was the essence of this bright young muse and artist who chanced to find a quiet man containing her complementary mind.


There are elements of any pair that only the pair can understand - a lost, hidden language that only appears in the world when they stand together. That is the very treasure behind the gate, and when we remember them, and look at the smiling faces we managed to capture, we are beholding the garden wall.


He beheld his beautiful free girl spinning around him one night when he happened to be not in one of his finest moments, told her never to see him this way. But, discovered, she stayed and met his wretched face with the dark, framed eyes he never tired of what they contained.


He kept her back from his grave mistake but they had a manner (more deeply, she) for one to dive fully into the other simultaneously and try to meet while each was coming out from the other side.


She could not hide from or deny a part of him a part of her. She could not sit before this man, illiterate,

she could not fail to understand the window. He protested, cried not ever, but his protestations sounded weak against the actions crying louder.


She craved not a high (and neither anymore did he); she tried to know, to feel, his life, the secret code behind his misery; she yearned to be her man and she became his last forbidden part 'fore either one of them could stop. It was not cheap desire pulling forward; none could see what drew her in, but he knew it was her devotion. He felt all of her devotion, like a secret never spoken, thriving silently and throbbing at the center of their life, only there for them to hear, like a word their love invented.


Her parents dug for signs they missed throughout her former life, inside her modeling career, low self-esteem, and instability, the tales that they invented to explain the incongruity.


They put him on suicide watch the night she passed from a complication, left by the needle, in her bloodstream, in the beating heart that loved him.


It was said he never recovered from the swallow by the shadow of a most uncommon power wielded poorly by the young. Ignorant to scientific whims of spiritual accident that prowl among the bright like vacuums swallowing whatever falls beneath, and inexperienced that they do not protect or favor great potential, brighter lights, no even closer to the opposite: they fall inside the moving indiscriminating hurricane that passes through them uninvited.


Half a light went out with her and there is no such thing. The light that also burned in him was given early. How can age have hope to carry such combustion into long-life love and comfort, to the heights it sees before it? Only accident can save it just as accident destroys it when the blind and tenderhearted

carry fire in their hands.