Brilliant, but damaged,
Her love is a disaster.
Like the mist tangled in her curls;
Sparkling against the light,
Pure,
And indeed fascinating,
Her love has always been a best seller.
Maybe for the red she leaves on the lips,
Or for the scratches she indents on the skin.
Or the zinchin she initiates.
The girl with unperturbed eyes,
And a golden face,
And a dazzling heart.
Her love is ceaselessly pointed,
Carved and taken,
Taken and abandoned;
And unlike the mist tangled in her curls,
Wretched, though pure,
Vulnerable, though fascinating,
And incomplete, though sparkling.
Her love feeds on her,
Leaving her a little less than yesterday,
Burning her quietly.
A broken love, she calls it,
For the broken girl.

© Jayesh Sharma

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