October 21st.

I found the last cherry blossom, pearly pink in blush.
The last bluff of innocence in a corpse of decaying petals...
Shriveled leaves and bared branches. 
But still it hung in adore. 
Contrasting pink. 

And the girl who I fell in love with her yellow hair. 
(Yeats would feel shame. I should feel shame.)
Why I never saw her face.
Just the nook of her neck, the vertebrates pulsating from her back. 
Oil rimming her fingertips as she swiped the palette clean.
So engrossed in her work that I snapped a picture of her in silence.
The diaphragm expanding and contracting in a quick wink. 

She didn't hear. 
She wasn't listening. 

And the world seemed so much more fairy-tale like through camera lenses.