Alabaster I touched you once in the cold morning sun -        long ago, it seems.    Your skin was Alabaster, stone without feeling,          you never noticed my warm hand on your shoulder. The tears I cried were never crystals -                            cold, hard precipitation on your white cheeks          never meant much to you. But when I opened the shades, the cold mourning sun                                                              spilled in,             lit your alabaster skin and your lapful of diamonds. You sat cross-legged,        like Buddha,               your palms turned toward the sun            cradling the crystals from a thousand lovers. Fall 1987

This was the crowning achievement of my High School writing. Won contests
and such. I was pretty young, and it really hasn't stood the test of time and maturity.

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