She'd fit like a vest on my back.
She'd stress test my best self
and let her bet rest on my stack
every time we'd be on the life's track.
She played lighter than the moon,
a symphony of déjà vu.
Her life — a rehearsal of how to be kind in time,
Fine like wine — and dine like time died and left you behind.
She smiled to reveal the room,
Stories reflecting in the glimmer of her soul doors,
Passion in her whiplash speed of thought,
the way she grazed and laughed with grace and tact,
the way she swooned the realm with suave delights
and crooned the sweetest tales out of those with might.
and every night of the week,
and every time I was weak
or tried to be meek,
and how she forgot I was a freak
and spoke all the words that made me tick.
She was Clementine.
A foreign name for a foreign being.
With dominion over trance and chance,
with feeling lost in translation worthy of a Hollywood adaptation —
“A modern Queen”.