She was the resident insomniac
(The lack never showed on her beautiful mind)

Her green eyes pierce the dark at 3 in the morning
(The only thing sharper than her gaze was her wit)

She was the wisps of flyaway hair
The shadows magnifying her cheeks

She was a collection of features
Eyes, lips, hands
Melded seamlessly, stitches invisible under the moonlight

She waited up night after night
(Her stubbornness was infuriatingly admirable)

But the open window yielded not a soul
And still she lay there, fingers twitching erratically


She was never one for happy endings anyways