I saw her
in pieces—
red, blue, and
green,
sharp and
timid,
confused and
swollen,
her red eyes
begging for
something—
anything,
anyone,
just the
one.
Simple things,
simpler times.
Such is the
world—
unfair and
rotten,
too much,
too little—
everything,
nothing.
Circling the
autumn,
winter in her
bones,
the summer in
her smile,
the spring in
her step.
I have seen
the ocean in
her eyes,
the naked sky
in her breath,
the strength in
her arms
to carry the
heaviest of scars—
to be someone
for something,
to be something
for someone.
The little world
inside her head
wanting to be
free—
but she knows
not
She is of that
world—
the last of
her kind,
the pieces that
won't fit—
unfinished,
untamed,
more than the sum
of her scars—
wild and unbroken,
her colors
her own—
perfect.
To my dearest friend, Bushra.