Bijou

She has

the tiniest, most fragile

wrists made for twirling

fans, rippling morning light,

caressing petals and shifting

specs of dust, brushing cheeks

and decorating satin pillows.

She has

blown glass bones infused

with golden ichor and cellophane

skin smoothed by salt tides,

spider web veins painted in

watercolour and long strands of hair

grown from firefly light.

She has

tiptoed on lily pads

within my dreams and danced

across whispers that bridged

my heart, settled on newborn leaves

inside my palms and fluttered

between eyelashes while I slept.

She has

never been real

in any of these ways,

never been intricate

or delicate like this.

Never been. Never been.

Never been bijou.