I love her and hate her,
despise her old nature and the way
the plot seems to thicken
when it's written on paper.
She's a beauty queen seen seldom
but in the eye of the beholder's
handgun when it's loaded and pointed at
another annoyed youth who doesn't pause to think.
The beholder's eye so fixated
on such a beautiful canvas that it
can't even blink.

I dropped my head to the carpet
and inspected departed footsteps.
Mudprints of shoe steps on
the place from where my head leapt
back into her arms, contempt with angst;
fiery passion for love and hate
but it's hard to give thanks when it
can't even blink.

A note scribbled in little letters
feathered with led strokes from past years
dribbled out of my pocket and into her ears
and it was stained with tears
when she read what it wrote.
The words of the paper
never came from my throat
the plot would thin the minute I choked...
Now the moment appeared
clear to the eye of the beholder who spoke,
she paused to clear her throat - I think
because the tears never come
when you can't even blink.

__________________
get attached to a rolling stone and you're libel to get crushed..