I see her sitting there in pink and I think,
No wit now, none of those clichéd phrases
She is not like a crushed flower, not a
Broken vessel; neither is she a damsel in
I do not need to charge to her rescue.
She smiles beyond me past my overtures.
She is no siren, either.
I hear her voice in my dreams –
no overtures - but a smile with no thought of me.
I’ve framed her world; she in my frame
sits, the Queen of Hearts,
the picture that says a thousand words,
the words that never call to me; call to me.