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She loved a poet
who loved to write,
about her.
He scribbled,
took notes,
created stanzas
and perfected poems,
about her.
He wrote
about her sorrowful eyes
the way the moon
lit up the darkness
within her,
the way her hair
curled lovingly around his fingers
as if it was meant to be.
He wrote about the angle of her curvy hips
sloping gently from her waist,
the perfect fit for his hands.
He continued to write
during the days
her tears began to fall,
even as she left
for the last time.
He, sadly,
let her slip through his fingers
and continued to write.
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