Helena, I wonder if you were flesh, what you’d be wearing. I know your hair is long coal, and I know your eyes, already, are turquoise diamond. You usually surround me with ideals. I have a hard time thinking about you sexually, not because you have no body, but because your hand moves directly through my bones and holds my heart, and your eyes stare at me like songs would. To reduce you to sex is something I can’t afford.

It’s the dawning of a raw time, Helena. I can’t tell you how important you are to me. It’s not comprehensible. I know things have to work out if I am ever going to be seated in a soft chair with my music, your solar eyes resting beneath the keys, waiting for the right feeling to trigger the right sentence, so you will awake and pull me down home.

Fickle little bitch plays hide-and-seek like its her fucking job. She wears nothing but a smile that mocks and flowing hair that covers enough to be mostly modest. Prancing, she taunts me with rhyme that flows easily to her rhythm. Rarely, does she stay and allow me to know her pretty prose intimately.

Oh!

But when she does, she is luscious and giving. Her aura glows bright but her words aren't always free. I pay her in memories that she turns into musings. Twisting the memory into fable and tall tale. Bending the memory and refracting it through her prism eyes. Devising something more divine that I ever can without her. But my betrayer speaks in tongues. Her obscure language is wasted upon my mortal ears, the eloquence lost on my simple mind. A wisp of thought flows through my clumsy keystrokes and she transcends her Godly existence to stroke me with her experience. Caressing my lips with her poetry, she fills my being with stories to be told. She brushes against me and I'm electrified, imbued with a fire that engulfs my mind. She is warm and my words flow freely in her presence.

But like all fickle bitches she leaves me craving. We have not spent enough time together and I long to taste her again. I am left behind to yearn for her return. And I grit my teeth, knowing she is giving what is mine to someone else.

Whore.

She is the many-faced wonder of my mind. each face more beautiful than the last, each with beauty unmatched. She is the curse bearer within me, that casts spells to enchant and invoke me to create as I spill the bloodwords from my fingertips. I twist and writhe between her lovely fingers, all the while she smiles and conjures another thought to push from my head to the paper. If there was an easier way, such as osmosis by slamming and holding my head to the paper, she would toy with the idea, but where is the fun in efficiency in creation? 'tis far much more pleasing to see the wordblood seep down from the cranium through, the neck, past the shoulders, down the arm, and pass the the fingers onto the page ever so slowly.

She may seem to be engulfed in black clothing, but it's more like the color of a black hole in space, absorbing every photon of light around it. The process may sound heartwrenchingly painful and macabre, but it's a process of love and imagination. Angels look like demons to those who fight against them.

There's an ethereal energy coming from the forest. When she follows the feeling, footsteps appear. They're bigger than her own, and it sends a tingle of excitement and fear down her spine. She wants desperately to have footprints as big as these.

The energy grows stronger, and once she's deep within the thicket she sees him. It's a boy, a young man, fragile and beautiful. There's a light around him and flowers in his hair, worlds of moss on his fingertips and wind in his breath. When he sees her, he doesn't speak. Neither does she.

He stands up and it feels as though she's frozen in time. She doesn't need air, she doesn't need flesh, she just needs her mind to be touched by him. He moves with the elegance and power of a wolf, yet she doesn't feel like the prey. He doesn't seem like a predator. He seems like he's meant to be there, and he's been waiting for her.

His hands are on her shoulders and she shuts her eyes. She has so many questions and apprehensions, but the will to burst overpowers them. Suddenly she has a galaxy in her chest, and she looks within herself and knows she could stare for hours, stay here, be happy. But the boy's grip on her shoulders tighten, and the galaxy grows and grows, getting so big it stop being beautiful, and starts being terrifying. There's too much to explore, too much to see, and too much to feel. She jolts away and looks the boy straight in the eyes. His gaze is mesmerizing and innocent, as if he had no idea what he'd just done. For some reason, she trusts it.

The girl comes back, day after day. They boy is there in the same place each time, welcoming her. He strokes her hair and caresses her neck, and each day paints a new picture of a place beyond her dreams. Sometimes it's an ocean, an island that only she knows, a house tucked away behind a mountain that's all hers. She knows she has all the answers then, that the euphoria will last longer than the last time. But the boy always turns sour, sooner or later. His temper flares and he holds too tight, the hand on her neck chokes her, the other pulls her hair.

Yet, the omniscient look on his content face always brings her back. And he knows that she'll always, always be back.

Caelen isn't the brightest cookie in jar, and neither was that comparison. But what she lacks in common sense she mark up for in wonder.

A personal blend of those yet to be created and those already made she the kinda girl to go running in the forest and promptly fall flat on her face, only to get up with a smile.

As she soaks up new sights, she brings flavour to her world and brightens up the dreariest winter night in Washington. . . State.