Whenever she's hurt she will shut up, shut down and shut doors. Learn to pick locks. a joke will press her ear against the door and her laugh will echo like a caged mockingbird's song against your eardrum. she will come out on her own with time and patience, but if you find yourself with neither, use the key. it lays hidden, veiled and always kept close behind her heart; her "Mon Petit Prince". ask him and she will open her window just enough to whisper tales of joy. Listen through the sill and she'll leave the space ajar for you to enter, but be sure to wipe your feet. The floors are coated satin and it will retain every step and word you leave behind.

Find her when you feel most alone or doubtful; with an embrace or clumsy segway she will deny your every fault. When you're far, call her at dawn to look out the window and share the sunset. She will reward you with a tiny locket she calls pandora's box. Her love buried six feet deep in the sky.

Her love brilliant and fleeting as a match. Strike her heart to a tender phrase and see the sparks. She'll deny the flare, through glistening eye luminous as a bonfire. Her tongue will whisper "stupid" to mask the curved lip's radiant smile of rainbow methane and promise of eternity.

Be quick and gentle. Her past is a jaded wind of misplaced trust and disenchantment, quick to snuff the momentary gamble of happiness. Shield the fragile thought with an assuring hand, but not with words, she finds too many of them ephemeral.

Hold her close instead, but be warned, you will feel the ember ignite something in yourself you may never known was there. the spread is feral, wild irrepressible. It can fester, consume your dreams like fuel to fire, burn long after that tiny spark has elf your arm and leave nothing but a crippled empty shell. A human cigarette butt. Just enjoy the smoke that follows.