the flavour of air

SHE

she was the moonless night
with constellations in her eyes
like an artist's canvas in progress
her soul was thousands of poems
together to form meaning
she was smudged lipstick and unruly hair
saturday nights and sunday evenings
she was not roses; she was thorns
she was all the colours and all the words
all the dance moves and rhythms
she was art
and she belonged to no one