Broken Ballerina Dancer

Today, I am greeted  by  
a moss covered path, my vision  
of profound joy fallen from a  
neutral sky leaves me mute  
Vintage film has lost its shape,  
cracking like the face of love  
without you.  
 
Your delicate touch,  like
fingerless wings sweeping  
across my flesh, leaving tiny
bits of down as soft as powdered
talc.  
 
Parts of me harden by the overpowering sensation I feel,  
as I lose myself in the patchwork  
of your  fragrance.  
 
 The world, broken by fault has  
placed us in a twisted box with  
a crooked ballerina dancer  
The music has stopped playing  
it's sweet chorus of she loves  
him, he loves her.
 
Wait in the secret compartment  
at the bottom of this box empty without a navel.  
Cries run between clouds that submerge themselves into  
unfinished rainbows that dictate  
who we must be.  
They deny my claim to move  
like fluid in neutral shades of  
my choosing  
 
Mountains of granite graphically crumble, as their symbols arrange themselves in the ravine where countless tears are bottled.
 Quench the scorched embers of  
 a lovesick fruited fig dropping  
 her seeds of wanton love.  
Sterile ground sucked dry of understanding.  
 
Let me mother those in need,  
let me father those who want,  
without your sticky label of  
masculine,  feminine it's  
residue has stained my shirt.