Grace

Like a shimmering spider, you
and your tasteless presence
waltz, not to me, but only my direction.
Here, your insipid allure prances like a drunken heron
wobbling with pestering grace.
Here, you become the single speck of existing alliteration,
the pupil in your own play's ireless iris.
Your softness never ends,


nor does your loftiness, however worthy
we dream it to be.
Finally - 
you fall, slowly snowing
your way, somehow to me.
Your lipstick removed
and your wings satin,
again.


I cannot pronounce - you will never apprehend, the perfect pain
and the depth of the well of the why that you are to me.