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it was something to do with the way your arms drew like vines when you moved.

the way they’d intertwine and weave so effortlessly like the french braids you wore in your hair when you were seven.

or maybe it was the way the pallid tulle fabric from your frayed petticoat would knowingly elevate itself by flight like black widows knitting their cobwebs; verses and strokes onto some spilled canvas; mine.

or the way the peach in your gaunt soles quivered like roots stemming from the ground en pointe, all callused and bruised and phantom limbs.

or the way your pirouettes and grand jetés were enunciated like soft-spoken hallelujahs under some celestial sky.

or the way i knew you once.

or the way your history beckoned to be narrated; for your entire existence to overflow into fine-grained, milk-eyed hues of coral and sea foam and cerulean.

or the way you beseeched to be resurrected by my tabula rasa; all life-sized and concrete.

you were more than just skin and bones, you promised.