She is not what he imagined:
A universe of stars trying to hide behind the sun.
He paints her
With a body made of stars and hair colored twilight,
she peaks from behind a burning sun, eyes shining with the Milky Way.
She is a galaxy inside a girl.
And she is a wonder.
The World Becomes Her
The world covers her hands—
In splatters of blue and green, red and yellow—
Paints her body with pieces of knowledge like stars in a night sky.
For she is truth and beauty
And lies and greed—gold with envy and naked with purity—
She is the world
And the world becomes her
Life and Death and a Girl
Her mind was made of bright lights,
Flashing, blinding, burning.
Her eyes were made of turquoise oceans,
Pushing, pulling, shining.
Her lips were made of paper love letters,
Touching, kissing, cutting.
Her hair was made of soft grass fields,
Tickling, laughing, hiding.
Her soul was made of rainbow paints,
Rising, arching, falling.
Her heart was made of glass feelings,
Loving, hoping, shattering.
Her blood was made of moon ebbed tides,
Cresting, gushing, pooling.
Her body was made of all these things—beautiful, ugly, tragic—now reduced to skin and bones, promises and scars.
For all the lies her body endured, her bones spoke truth—just a girl, once of flesh, stardusted dreams and ocean night breezes. Now, just a corpse—brittle bones and barely healed cracks.
Death touched her gently, kindly, lovely. Held her sweetly, calmly, reverently. For bones told no lies, as flesh so oft did. Her bones were just a girl, loved by death and no one at all.
Death dressed her beauty—
Stuffed her ribs with flowers soft, petals silk,
Crowned her head with morning glories,
Filled her heart with roses pink and roses white,
Painted her body in blues and greens, white and red.
Pink—soft like flesh—
And orange—heavy like sunlight—
These were the things of which he made her.
For while Life had dressed her cruelly, touched her cruelly, loved her cruelly.
Death would call her sweet, touch her tender, love irrevocably.
Life had given her away, flung to waves of far seas.
Death clutched her precious, a pearl in his chest of treasures: she was butterflies and sunshine, honey milk and dew drops, cloudy skies and lamplit streets.
Life had given her away and Death had laid his claim.
What she was once, she would never be again—
For now she was his.