Henry.

 

     Here on the blog, for the first time ever, an excerpt from my novel, tentatively titled,"Fire Nights in Bear Dance". This scene appears in Chapter One...

(apologies for typos and such, this is an unedited draft.)

*** 

 

     Henry Chote shuffled through the Sporting Goods department at the Walmart. At his age, he was happy to still be able to do his own shopping. He had new knees, but his hips were another story, so as long as he had a buggy to push and hang on to, he was fine.

     He’d been blessed with golden skin from his Cherokee grandfather, but 92 years in the sun had severely wrinkled his once handsome face. His Elizabeth had been the lucky one, dying so young, remembered in her beauty. Henry would only be remembered as a stooped over old man with too many stories. He knew he would die soon, a simple statement of fact. He wasn’t sick, it was simply his time. He didn’t mind the dying so much, he just didn’t want to know it was coming. Henry didn’t want to have those last minute thoughts. Those worries and regrets that must fly to the surface of your consciousness at such a moment. He hoped to die in a dream. He dreamed of Elizabeth, naked under the trees of a long ago summer. Blond hair spread around her head as she quivered beneath him.  He sighed, and turned the buggy into the fishing aisle.

     There was a glass counter with a cash register, where you could buy guns, or a fishing license. At the moment a vaguely familiar man, who looked to be in his fifties, was bent over looking at hunting knives lined up like soldiers in the case. The man stood up straight and looked around for an employee. Not seeing one immediately, he pushed a button located on a pole near the cash register. Within a few seconds a woman’s voice came over the PA system: “Help needed in Sporting Goods. Help needed in Sporting Goods.” The man began to drum his fingers on the glass, but stopped when he noticed the old man watching him.

     “Is there something you want?” the man frowned.

     “No.” replied Henry. He continued to stare.

     “Old man, what is your problem?,’ said the younger man.

     “I know you,” Henry smiled. “It took me a minute, but now I recognize you.  Must be almost 40 years now. Looks like everything turned out okay for you…”

     “You can’t possibly know me. I’m not from around here,” the man snapped. Henry caught just the slightest shimmer of something in the younger man’s eyes.

    “ I do know you! You’re …”

   “May I help you?” Henry’s memory was interrupted by an overweight young man in a blue vest, who spoke while looking down into his cell phone.

     The man reached over and grasped Henry’s wrist, holding it too tight, and looking the old man straight in the eye, said,

     “Leave me alone!” Letting go of Henry’s arm, he turned and started speaking to the kid, who’d missed the rough exchange as he was busily tapping into his phone.

   Henry hesitated just a moment then pushed his buggy into the next aisle, lingering there for a few minutes looking at camping gear. Mulling over the odd exchange, he decided he should go over and confront the man again, but when he got back around the corner, both he and the blue vested boy were gone.

     Twenty minutes or so later, Henry left the store with a bag of new fishing lures, got in his battered old pick-up, and turned the radio to his favorite classic country station.  He drove slowly on the busy road. A convoy of angry looking young men in neon colored Hondas low to the ground, blew past him honking their horns and flipping him the bird.

     “Assholes,” Henry said out loud.

     Henry was humming along to “Ring of Fire” as he came up to a red light and stepped on the brakes. The pedal went to the floor. The old truck was still moving forward.

     “Aw, Dammit!” Henry grumbled to himself. He’d felt the brakes getting soft and had meant to take the truck over and have his grandson look at it, but just hadn’t gotten around to it. Knowing the truck was going to roll into the intersection, he tried the door. He might break a hip when he fell to the road, but the damn things needed replacing anyway. He fumbled just a second too long with the button lock on the old door. A chicken truck speeding through the intersection plowed into the passenger side of the old Chevy.

     Henry didn’t die immediately, but laid there for a minute or two in the rubble of his truck, the smell of burnt rubber, antifreeze, and gasoline wafting around him. Feathers. Millions of white feathers floating in the air.  He was aware of some pain and people yelling in the distance. Then he heard a softer voice and opened his eyes to the sight of the most glorious blue sky through broken glass.

     “Elizabeth,” the old man whispered into the feathery air.

Tired

She desires a slumber

Away from pain

And disappointment. 

A rest at the crest of a hill,

With her back on the grass 

And eyes to the sky. 

She needs a nap 

Away from crowds

Of the hateful and small minded. 

Just a little shut eye

In a quiet room.

With nothing but 

Happy colored dreams

Flying in her mind. 

She'll sigh and sleep,

Lashes flicker on her cheek. 

Leave her be, 

Let her slumber

Let her sleep. 

kjsmith

Painting: Sleeping Beauty

By Henry Meynell Rheam

Mail Call

     Yesterday I fished through a drawer in my writing cave and found an old spiral bound notebook. As I turned away with it in my hand, a piece of paper fluttered out of it. It was a letter written in 1989 by an old friend, a guy we'll call Max. He and I had been school friends, but lost touch for a while. We reconnected a couple years later through a mutual friend. From 1979 to 1990, Max and I exchanged letters frequently. Long, journal-like missives that contained mostly the mundane doings of our daily lives. Sometimes we waxed philosophical, discussing serious things as we stumbled together through our twenties and early thirties, miles apart yet connected firmly by pen, paper and postage. We knew each other's biggest dreams and deepest secrets. 

     He stopped writing regularly after he got married. The last letter, in 1992, was short and to the point. I missed Max for a while. Then I hated his wife. Eventually I hated him. Now I just don't give a damn anymore. 

    Life's too short to waste any of it thinking about people who don't think about me. 

     I opened the single sheet of typing paper that was folded in half and beginning to yellow. I skimmed over it just to see when it was written, but didn't read every word. I laid it on the desk and just stared at it for a while, not sure what to do with it. For years I kept all his letters stuffed into a shoebox, finally burning them to ashes in my driveway sometime in the mid-90's. This was the last remaining letter. The last piece of proof that at one point in our lives we had been friends. 

     With a small nostalgic hitch in my heart, I tore it into a dozen pieces and dropped it in my little wicker waste basket. 

     This evening, I walked to the mailbox and pulled out a stack of sales flyers, credit card applications and yet another plea to renew my AARP membership. Flipping through the stack as I walked back to the house, I noticed the corner of a pretty red envelope peeking out. 

     A letter. From one of my newest friends, a kindred spirit. She's on the other side of an ocean, but also connected by pen and paper, postage and...internet.  I can't wait to pull out my dusty box of stationery and write her back. 

     It's been such a long time. 

Just Another Random Thursday Morning

     Some days you just wake up in the sunlight of a personal epiphany. 

     The past several months have been transitional for me emotionally. Oh, I'm sitting in the same house, with the same man...but I'm not the same person anymore. Walking out of the fog of so much loss all at once, and the burdens of all the responsibilities that go with that, is not simple. So much, too much, upheaval. The struggle to write something good and meaningful while all that is going on is practically impossible. It was for me, anyway. The writer's pen became too heavy to pick up. So I left it there, abandoned on the desk, dust motes in a sunbeam waiting to settle, and walked out of the room...

     ....and time passed...years most truly wasted and lost forever....

     With the support and encouragement of friends, the pen isn't quite so cumbersome anymore. There is new ink on fresh white paper, and that, my friends, is pretty damned exciting. 

     But life's inevitable obstacles are daunting...and potentially debilitating.  So I worry...'How are we going to pay for that...where can I find time for this..' 

Lately, those obstacles have begun to stack up. Insurmountable. My personal Everest.  Even though there's a good man in my life who works his ass off in a dirty job every day, I feel like I'm climbing those peaks alone. 

I've come to understand that I've felt that way My. Entire. Life. 

     All 50-something years of it. 

     Alone. 

     I have always been the misunderstood "odd man out", left to my own devices, forced to look inward for emotional support...and I've been mostly okay with that. Admittedly, I'm comfortable keeping most people at arms length...

     But, I've begun to feel more and more like something is missing. I'm craving something I couldn't quite name. Some elusive ghost of emotion. 

     This morning, the simple, and really so-obvious-I-can't-believe-I-didn't-hear-them-before words came to me... 

     I've never felt cared for. 

     I've never had someone else step up and say, "Give that problem to me. I'll do it." 

     My mom always used to complain to me that she just wanted somebody else to step in and deal with all life's crap for her. She was tired of being the one everyone else came to when they had a problem. (Of course she never realized she'd been using me as her personal psychotherapist, unburdening herself to me, since I was about five. :/ )

     I'm not sure why I'm following in her footsteps, but it pisses me off! I'm not sure how to solve it, but I'm also not really seeking to, at the moment. 

Life will be what it will be, and right now I'm just happy to be heard. 

     My dream is to take all this crazy, emotional baggage and infuse it into fictional characters that readers will relate to and maybe like enough to ask for more. 

     My hope is to grow old writing. To die with a pen in my hand and an unfinished sentence on the page. 

     I'm not sure if any of this made any sense, but thanks for listening. :)

Time for more coffee, I think. 

-kim

   

Fresh Air

This morning I saw one of those social media memes with the word 'Explore' emblazoned across a sunlit canyon. I stared at it for a minute or two, wondering when I last explored anything more exciting than my kitchen pantry. It's been a while. 

When I first met the Man, he had a motorcycle. Not the crotch rocket type, but the big, comfortable touring type. We would frequently hop on the bike after dinner and just ride. I was new to this area, so every road was fresh for me...every shadow on the pavement, every tight mountain curve.  We took longer rides, too. Long, ass-numbing rides that required packed bags strapped onto the back. It was spectacular. If you want to really experience a road trip, do it on two wheels instead of four. 

We sold the bike about five or six years ago. We sold it because at some point we can't name, we just stopped riding. We got older. We got busier. It feels weird, like we've misplaced something...but this really isn't meant to be a story about the motorcycle. 

It's about finding something new. Going new places. With new people. 

When was the last time you saw anything new? When did you last have a fresh experience? 

Maybe I've become old and jaded. Maybe I've got a severe case of 'been there, done that' disease. Until recently, I felt like I hadn't seen anything new. In years. 

Then, almost a year ago now, I found my tribe, a group of like-minded creatives, and everything changed. I began to see the world through their eyes, their experiences. I found my long lost and left for dead curiosity. 

About everything. Every. Thing. Not just artsy stuff. My soul is lit up with ten-thousand candles and I plan on following every flickering flame. 

I am going places. Literal and figurative. It's time to explore. Time to reclaim my forgotten fearlessness. Time to see something new and breathe fresh air that my lungs don't recognize. 

I'm dragging the Man along, too. Wanna come with? You know what they say... The more the merrier...  :)

- kjsmith

(Photo is Lookout Mountain taken from the observation point on Still Hollow Loop Road.)

Power

More than love

We need to be understood. 

Accepted. 

Respected. 

Heard. 

Hold your tongue

If it's mean. 

If you won't even try

To hear and embrace

And respect 

Me. If you are too shallow

To understand,

Leave my life.

As there is no more room for you here. 

I will not regret,

Not waste another moment 

Wondering what you think. 

- kjsmith

Your Potential Has Potential

     So, here's the thing...I don't like seeing people held down, kept from their dreams. Life is too damned short for that nonsense.

     I allowed myself to be held too tightly by my parents for a really long time. Then when I finally woke the hell up and made my escape, I fell into the arms of a narcissistic, emotionally abusive control freak. I eventually escaped him, too.  It's no small miracle that I'm still (relatively) sane. 

   Having freed myself of the shackles of giving a shit, my backbone grew exponentially. I do still have lapses of allowing people to treat me disrespectfully, but they are becoming fewer and farther between. 

     It's a beautiful kind of freedom.  Thinking of your needs ahead of others.  Following your own heart, wherever it takes you. It's a liberty we all deserve. A worthy rebellion. 

     Don't deny your potential for the sake of someone else's comfort. 

Dog days.

She waits for a changing wind. 

The heat, like a drug that renders her incapable of movement,

Leaves her thoughts muddled and smoky. 

Her voice lost somewhere in the heavy air, 

It falls to the ground unheard. 

She wishes for a cooler breeze.

One to stir the words up 

Off the dry grass of summer

And send them floating...

But still, the only sounds

Are the insistent cicadas,

And her own breath, in and out, 

In harmony with the squeak

Of the porch swing. 

- kjsmith

Promise?

I don't want to make a promise

To myself

That I might not be able to keep. 

A lifetime of wanting and waiting

Has hardened my heart

For dreams. 

And so, I go on. 

Holding nothing too close. 

Nothing too dear. 

Nothing...

For myself. 

Just one step after another

Along an untended path. 

Avoiding the stones that would trip me. 

I will not fall. I will walk on. 

Without promises. 

-kjsmith 

To Know Me ...

    Inspired by my lovely friend Jane Barry at "That Curious Love of Green", today, just for fun, I will answer the Proust Questionnaire. Ready? Let's go!



1.) What is your idea of perfect happiness?

      Answer: I would have to be making a good living as a writer. Having my days to myself to spend as I wish with no demands on me other than those I'd choose myself.

2.) What is your greatest fear?

     A: Dying before I'm done living...if being done is even possible. There's always more.

3.) What is the trait you most deplore about yourself?

       A: I tend to procrastinate.

4.) What is the trait you most deplore in others?

       A: Arrogance and self-righteousness.

5.) Which living person do you most admire?

       A: Anyone who has the courage to live their dream, to make it happen.

6.) What is your greatest extravagance?

       A: I'm fairly self-indulgent but not sure any of those indulgences would be considered an extravagance...since I have to come up with something I'd have to say books. E-Books specifically.

7.)What is your current state of mind?

       A: Waiting. All my life, waiting.

8.) What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

       A: Temperance, restraint, restriction...I'm an "all or nothing" kind of girl.

9.) On what occasion do you lie?

       A: I am brutally honest, but will tell a fib to spare someone's feelings on occasion.

10.) What do you most dislike about your appearance?

     A: Only the aging of it.

11.) Which living person do you most despise?

       A: No one specific. Politicians in general.

12.) What is the quality you most like in a man?

       A: Humor.

13.) What is the quality you most like in a woman?

       A: Confidence.

14.) Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

       A: "I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants!"

15.) What or who is the greatest love of your life?

       A: Myself. My SELF. Not in an arrogant way, but in the way that means I'm content with who I am.


16.) When and where were you happiest?

       A: Hard to say. I don't think I've ever been fully "happy". I've always been very content at the ocean.

17.)Which talent would you most like to have?

       A: I'd like to have a talent for organization. I have the desire, but not the conviction.

18.)If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

       A: I'd be thinner. I suppose that's something I could change though. Haha.

19.) What do you consider your greatest achievement?

       A: There are two...escaping the influence of my family and deciding I could actually do this writing thing.


20.) If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what would it be?

       A: I'd like to comeback as an idea. As a spark in someone's heart. A fire in someone's soul. I'd like to be the inspiration for someone else to achieve what they dream. That little voice that says, "Do it!".


21.) Where would you most like to live?

       A: I'd settle for anywhere on the windswept, rocky coast on either side of the Atlantic.

22.) What is your most treasured possession?

       A: Technology. Specifically, the USB memory stick that holds my book, the iPhone that holds my daily life and the laptop that holds the world.


23.) What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

       A: Being sick and not being able to do a damn thing about it because you simply don't have the money.

24.) What is your favorite occupation?

       A: Reading, writing, thinking, listening to music.


25.) What is your most marked characteristic?

       A: Honesty. I'm very blunt. 

26.) What do you value most in your friends?

       A: Loyalty. Not something I've seen much lately.


27.) Who are your favorite writers?

       A: It changes from time to time, but let's say...Charlotte Bronte, Agatha Christie, Amy Tan, Hugh Howey, Ursula K.LeGuin, Stephen King. I'm currently in LOVE with books by Susanna Kearsley, JD Nixon, JC Phelps, and Denise Grover Swank.

28.) Who is your hero of fiction?

       A: I'm particularly fond of the strong female characters written by Nixon, Phelps and Swank, noted above.


29.) Which historical figure do you most identify with?

       A: I honestly can't think of any one particular figure I identify with specifically. Maybe some ancient Celtic warrior queen.


30.) Who are your heroes in real life?

       A: Anyone who fights for their life, literally or figuratively.


31.) What are your favorite names?

     A: I agonized over the characters names in my book. Of those, my favorites are Samantha Goodbit and Bluesky Chote.


32.) What is it that you most dislike?

       A: Liars, bad drivers, snow, and housework.

33.) What is your greatest regret?

     A: This sounds corny, but I don't regret anything I've ever done. I regret things I haven't done...and one of those was not being able to say goodbye to a dying friend, though the situation was out of my control.


34.) How would you like to die?

       A: Painlessly, in my sleep, after a long day of laughing my ass off with friends.


35.) What is your motto?

        A: "Don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep 'em on a leash". Thanks Hozier! :)


     So there it is! Me, in a 35 question nutshell. I think this would be a fun thing to do every year, just to reevaluate who you think you are.


Thanks for reading and check out the link to Jane's blog below.

http://thatcuriousloveofgreen.com/2016/04/21/i-take-the-proust-questionnaire/

Wallflower

She divides herself 

And hides herself

From the reminders 

Of all she cannot have. 

She stays apart from 

The laughter. 

Not privy to the jokes

And banter. 

She stands on the wall

And waits. 

All dressed up with nowhere to go. 

Everybody's friend. 

Nobody's concern. 

She contains herself. 

Entertains herself

With doodles on the page

Where words should be.

-kjsmith 

Church

I don't need a ritual

To teach me how to worship

All the worthy things in the world. 

No god to teach me to love. 

I know these things already.

In my bones, my blood. 

My soul. 

No devil owns me. 

No angel watches. 

I walk the path on my own. 

Unencumbered 

By historical interpretation. 

Enlightened

By my own instinct. 

Such characters

     Characters come to me almost daily. Sometimes they sneak up on me at the grocery store, tap on my shoulder, say a shy hello. Other times they bust down the front door and punch me in the face. 

     I write these characters immediately as I stumble over them. Just a quick scene, short paragraph, sometimes a poem. Getting them on the page, in some form, is important. They may not end up in any finished project, but at least they've had their day in the sun and I have them here for future reference. 

So today, I'll show you these two...

***

Vivian:

She was one of those Coco Chanel ladies...you know the type..."You can never be too rich or too thin". 

She was 'old' money. Straight tweed skirts with Ferragamo flats, cashmere twinset and a Hermes scarf tied snug against her neck.  Her hair was done in an elegant bob that she kept tucked neatly behind her pearl studded ears. She owned a brownstone on Chestnut Street, and a cottage on Martha's Vineyard with weathered cedar shingles and a crushed shell driveway. 

She preferred the Vineyard. She was alone there usually, her friends having deserted her after the divorce. There was no one left to judge her, so she'd sit out on her lawn watching the waves come in to shore and she'd drink beer straight from the bottle and then belch really loud. 

***

This one came in a poem: 

No Halo

You know her. 

Or, at least, her type. 

The one whose smiles

Hide daggers. 

Whose bitterness lingers

At the bottom of the glass. 

That last sip of cheap-ass wine. 

She pretends to be

The blue eyed angel

Serene and benevolent

But there's no halo

No wings.

Unless bitches fly. 

The last time I checked, they don't. 

Most people see the best

But I cannot. 

My intuition, this x-ray vision

Lays her truth open to the sun 

Her righteous superiority exposed. 

She smiles sweet evil and it's 

The last lie she tells.

Thanks for reading! 

No rules

Don't label my emotions

Or name my words,

For there is no wrong way to be human. 

Life is an abstract painting,

A strange haiku

With one extra syllable. 

Just put it on the paper. 

Or get in line at the museum

And wait your turn for the tour

Through someone else's colors and ink. 

- kjsmith

G'night

I wanted to tell you a story 

About the night. 

The one where an owl hoots 

Way off in the distance. 

And the neighbors cat stalks 

Shadows of mice. 

I sit here, on the porch steps 

Arms around my knees. 

Chimes, soft music, out of tune 

with a missing piece.

The velvet sky littered 

with clouds that the wind threw away

Stars between them 

Just pieces of the constellations 

That made ancient men wonder

And dream. 

Maybe tomorrow night

The wind won't forget to take the clouds 

And I'll see more than just 

The Three Sisters through the trees. 

Lost in Translation

Marichit Garcia's post on her Ink & Water page (see link below) about jumping from one pool into another is so eloquent, as usual. Like music. My knee-jerk reaction is to share it on my personal Facebook page, but I hesitate, because most people there wouldn't 'get it'. They aren't used to that type of communication, not on my page or from me personally. 

And that got me thinking...

The way all my creative tribe write and express themselves is the way I have always talked to myself in my head. But that's not how words come out of my mouth. The life of my soul has to be translated into another language for the 'normal' people I interact with. Translated or hidden altogether. 

Today, I realized that I'm two different people. And I have been pretty much my entire life. The artistic and eloquent automatically translated before it ever leaves my head. 

There's a memory from when I was eight or nine years old and we had free time in class. I was drawing and coloring some crazy abstract thing full of swirling lines and another girl asked me why I was coloring 'that way'. I explained my idea, which was making patterns within each section. By changing the direction of the crayon strokes I could make a pattern within a pattern. She looked at me with a blank stare and said, "But why are you coloring that way?"

"Never mind" I replied, realizing she wasn't ever going to understand. So, I  quickly learned to 'dumb down', translate, become the generally accepted version of normal. I got tired of saying 'nevermind'. Most of the people in my life only see the parts of me that don't require explanation or translation. 

I wear an entirely different skin most of the time. I don't dislike the other skin. I've known her for a long time now. She's fun-loving and smart-assed and drinks too much tequila.  

I don't mind being her. After all these years that skin fits well. But it's nice being part of a creative, accepting community where I can shed the mundane and write stuff like this. Where I can be magical and eloquent. Where I don't ever have to say 'never mind'.

https://www.facebook.com/inkwaterwall/

Just Another Day

The house is quiet so it's easy to begin writing before I even sit down at the computer. I let my mind begin to wander. While in this state I discover things about myself or my characters. 

I'm beginning to come to terms with my dark side. I'm not afraid of her anymore. The understanding that I'm just not that 'nice' was tough at first. The world doesn't see that side. They see the funny, sociable side. They wouldn't understand the darker part, the melancholy part. When I was young, that's the part where my poetry came from...my best stuff came from that version of me. I spent years forgetting she was there. 

Now I usually write from somewhere in the middle. It's an almost physical sensation of putting myself in a bubble. A Venn diagram of me. I sit writing in that overlapping section. Easily able to reach to either side. I step out of the center to make lunch or let the dog out, then go back to the overlap. When I'm truly in flow, I'm completely on the dark side. And it's fantastic. I realize this sounds clichéd but it feels like I'm standing on the cliffs with the wind whipping through my hair and waves crashing on the rocks below. My blood hums through my veins and in those moments, only those moments, do I feel like myself. Real. So real. So perfectly me. 

I don't share this lightly. I know it sounds a bit insane. But...

Hell, maybe I am. I don't care. 

I like sitting there, on the dark side, with fabulous things flying from my fingers. 

~Kim

Notes

I hear the music. 

Made by the staccato tapping

of my fingers on the keyboard. 

Playing all the letters.

Swaying to the rhythm

Of sentences.  

Dancing with words. 

Gray

     I hate gray. Not so much as a color, but as an atmosphere. Certain grays shut me down...cause my internal doors to close. 

     But, there are acceptable grays... grays that open me up, that bring contentment to the surface...

     The gray of driving down a lonely, empty road in the fog. The sun, not yet above the invisible horizon. No other headlights coming at you as proof of life. Just you. Pure, untouched solitude. That's a good gray. 

     Then there's the gray of a walk in the woods on a drizzly day. But that gray is made better by the green and brown aromas. The wet earth, the dead leaves, moss, soggy lichen on a fallen branch. It's not a bad gray. 

     My personal favorite gray would find me walking along a rocky shore on an overcast day, particularly just before a storm. The wind whipping through my hair, leaving it damp and salty. Seabird tracks in the sand with my own. Clouds rolling in and over. Waves breaking over rocks. The air tickles your nose with it's stormy effervescence. It is in those gray windswept moments that I can feel the earth. It's majesty undeniable. I am whole. Every cell humming with something I can't really name. That's the best gray. 

     Today, if the sun comes out, I'll sit on my porch steps and turn my face up to my patch of blue and let all the yellow soak into my soul. 

~ Kim

(This was written and posted originally in That Curious Love of Green - Creativity Salon in November of 2015)

https://www.facebook.com/groups/937099189691204/

Her

She's so much more than he knows. 

Deeper than he dreams. 

Smarter than he fears. 

She is formidable. 

Not calm. 

And adventurous. 

Not acquiescent.

She won't whisper. 

She'll rage. 

She doesn't heal. 

She'll roar. 

She's a warrior, a lover.  

Intelligent and ridiculous. 

She's the moon, 

And all the fish in the sea. 

She is more, 

So much more.

-Kim