She wants you to see the faint snow powder the broken branches past the pasture with your own eyes, flooded, and drowning light, the place crowded with fat orchids she planted there. She never gets older, only newer, like flowers and the seasons change, she will bloom when you meet her. There are bamboo stalks standing close together like sentinels guarding a nursery of cobra lily, a copse of pitcher plants, and a cloud of frightened, stumbling honeybees. There are church and ship bells ringing far away, pearls on her breasts, bitten lips, gentle waves caressing the white sands of her beach, a pristine and privileged dream married to a rusted and wealthy shovel, pregnant graves and Saintly ribbons concealing her veil, everything beautiful.
You will see dipping seabirds over the canary colored islands, and a garden of delighted rocks safely entombed among each other, her Holy valley before the mountains, they are blue like bruises on a face, your name in the sand, and how she held hear breath when you kissed her, you have a pretty name, soft touch, and golden allure. This is Heaven to her, her unorganized portraits, her pitiful notebooks full of hurtful words and sad spirals of bent wire, the dress she wore for you, a short life of immortal starlight, forever and now, she waits, and the farther away you are, the smaller her heart will be.