You're like the roses behind the glass.

I could see and love you but could never touch

you, or feel your heart.

Bitter—I know, right?

You're made of glass:

Your bones are strong, though, but not like your scars.

You're blue in the sunlight and purple under the moon—

I wish I could feel your heart and talk with you in the afternoon.

The walls crumble like muffled letters suddenly,

reminding me of red murder prattles over winter coffee.

I could see your veins—

Deep green and branched.

They contract and relax; I sense them giggling,

I wish I could hear their hearts.

But these hearts were broken

in wars of hope:

The young hearts are brimming with blood,

like red roses behind the glass.

You sometimes hold your breath—I know you.

But behind everything, I could see a candle melting.

Even the blackbird knows about my heart.

I wish I could stir stories a little more before falling apart.

Cold at midnight,

Blue in sunlight,

lonely but crowded.

For you are made of glass,

and everyone loves it.

They send you glassy flowers,

and you cry at late hours.

There's nothing but awe,

and you hate it; you want something raw.

Something pleasant (and unreal): love.

You wish they could love you,

and I wish I could tell you back.