Clementine

Yogic, precarious, in a pale knit polo and emerald silk wrap. You disturbed her on the lip of mindfulness. You called; she turned her pumpkin-face, slash of bruised zest half-smiling.

Beyond her skin all life is clay, in her world and in yours. Craft your own angles and elbows, fashion a blueprint of ribs, impress her with unique loops and whorls, need or knead your pliant, plastic playmate. She will pose, pout, weep marmalade.

It's only when you invert the whole relationship that you see the marble orb of her spirit above that clench of dark body, serenity cresting your random, petulant thumb prints. Make of her whatever you will. That reflection is how she sees herself.