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Exiting beauty’s cradle her grasp spans what destiny holds pale.
She has yearned, gained and lost what was fused to her core, yet still she traverses beneath a southern sky that haemorrhages numerical promise and nighttime bridge wishes.
She says she’s never wrong, and I believe her. 

Etched sunflowers bloom and shimmer from her wrist to elbow.
She recounts stories, memories and hopes that glide from Columbia to San Francisco and carefully guides me through intricate explorations of heart and landscape.
She says she’s never wrong, and I believe her.

Above this endless river we sit and stare through mottled sunlight.
I am trapped, smothered in sable eyes and hair that are as rich and sublime as an oncoming tropical storm that threatens to transport me into certain oblivion.
She says she’s never wrong, and I believe her.

I lay small gifts at her feet and pray that they aren’t too much to take.
Her laughter breaks me in two as summer traffic speeds over an emerald bridge that gleams in the night like jewels lost in a dust storm. 
She says she’s never wrong, and I believe her.

She leads me downstream and walks me through evening gardens.
City lights envelop us, and I wish I could hold her hand, but I can’t put that weight on her shoulders, I won’t put that weight on her shoulders.
She says she’s never wrong, and I believe her.

She has crossed my path for mere seconds and left me dazed, static.
She’s in my world now where once she wasn’t, so I will remember, smile and hold my heart in my hand whilst I say her name to the sky below me.
She says she’s never wrong, and I believe her.

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