she is a magic mirror.

she doesn't belong to this world, yet here she is.

she surrounds herself in fiction and leaves us in our reality.

when the whole room is screaming, she is sitting, waiting

you see yourself reflected in her, and she smiles.

she brings out the best in everyone.

she says the indecisive are passionate, the struggling are durable,

the messy are a mosaic, the brash are creative.

everything is beautiful, everything has a silver lining.

everything deserves applause, hey, you did your best.

and at the end of the day there she goes,

back into her beautiful fairytale world where she came from.

earth needs more beings like her.

she is watercolor. 

splashes of pastels blend and blur and bleed and become more beautiful.

she's a flurry or iridescence in a blank canvas world.

her outlines are black ink illustrated with a careful hand, 

but her colors defy the lines drawn for her.

one look at her sunset sky soul and stress just seeps out of you.

monet's impressionism couldn't capture the impression she gives.

van gogh's stills can't frame her whirring flurry of life.

pollock's numbers came close with the colors, but lacked her control.

she is utterly unpaintable, unpredictable, and unrepeatable.

and i love her with all my rainbow heart.

There he lies, stretched out like a king,

with hair of gold, a crown on his head,

or perhaps a laurel, proclaiming this victory:

he got the girl, I ended up dead.

“I won,” he whispered through the dark,

“I won,” he told me in his sleep.

“I won,” to her sounds like, “I love you.”

“I won.” It sounded the same to me.

There he lies, as he always does.

His words are false, I wish she'd have seen.

He should have never been trusted or loved,

But today she vowed the contrary.

She, with her soul like an ever-changing sky,

She was daring, cunning, and smart,

She, with her love like a stormy ocean,

She smiled and put a dagger through my heart.

There he lies, with her arms around her,

A noose around her neck, two venomous snakes,

The window drowns them in honey moonlight,

Spotlighting the reason my dead heart breaks.

Ghost, standing silent, on a mission for vengeance,

Ghost, lying still, in his blanket tomb,

Ghost, with a smile, naive and unsuspecting.

Ghosts, (count them: three) in this hotel room.