She a real painter's sunrise, done up in cherry smoke and brush stroke. I draw her in my mind like she's always been here and I haven't -- a thousand lines like chinese print signs, banners screaming out in the night:
"Why god, can't I fit my hands around you
Why can't we make what's come and gone, what's been so wrong
makes its rounds like opium come to put it right?"
Instead, I'll be a student of solace
and comfortable arms' length conversation
reaching for what I can see but not touch
it must not be there, because to her I'm no sensation.