On an indigo whim,
she sweeps her soul into sunshine and turpentine,
whispering its bouquet to the wind.
It butterflies like dandelion fluff,
parachuting on the breeze.
While teasing the ground,
with ambrosial and noisome sounds,
it harmonizes into hymns of him–
a heady elixir that grieves the miles, the years, the bigger picture–
and lands on his sleeve.
He breathes in her song, her scent–
what went wrong and what it all meant–
and breathes out: I was never enough.