Pure, Honest, and Innocent: could i imagine that? When i try, her face appears as a golden maiden next door knelt down at the beds watering her orchids as the sun dips low and paints her face the color of contentment. She smiles and waves as i walk from the car she says, “It’s so nice to feel the sun again.” She seems so far away, though just next door. to me, she is fiction. My past comes in many bodies The tall genius, the villain, the impossible girl but they are all up close like the dusk, like a bitter, freezing night my friends say, “it’s not the cold. It’s the wind that gets you.” If love should be the First Bloom, why does it feel like December? How can my mind tell my heart that love does not have to be angry? The golden one asks me about my day. Perhaps i should start a garden.