Scores on the Glass

It's that moment, you look into the mirror that is their soul, and see yourself.

She dropped her gaze again.

The one that hinted that no one was listening,

weighed down by inexpressible dejection.

Looking at me, 

as if I was a mirror that reflected everything she couldn't find in others,

her eyes seemed to be handled. 

Caught between agitation,

and the uncertainty that supported her posture.

Such hollow candles.

Flames that reveal the finest of scores on 

cheap glass.

She puts wonder in her tone,

speaks like a monologue with every word a soliloquy of

discolored skin. 

Verses hidden underneath breaking ribs

sewn together

by an all-predominating sense of terror.

Rending heartstrings.

Hesitant touches upon crystal,

addressed in unwonted kindness.

How dreams sometimes touch other dreams:

Just barely.

I remember how violently she had been thrust aside then.

Suffocating in distress.

Flames of resentment still burned,

somberly.

There was something ascetic in her look,

with a pulse of curiosity that would trace the fabrics of my skin

and see if it left marks on her fingertips.

Her lonely eyes opened wild and wide.

The best stories pour from silent lips,

Warm lyrics stir from the aching of unloved feelings

that find comfort in the heat of kind words,

pulling them closer.

So close, fingertips can trace the rims of broken crystal.

Symphonies of tragedy turning into harmony.

With a smile she fixed her gaze on the fire,

lingering on its sentiment,

that seemed to forget about the scars on the glass.