The girl across the room is a stranger. Her hair is familiar, her face is comfortingly reassuring, But her eyes speak of trauma, Of forgotten dreams and aspirations that shatter daily. In the lines of her tired face I see a dreamer, And in the pools of her eyes I see a perfect disaster. Where there was once pure, undiluted hope and happiness, there is now a dulled pretense.
She feels like a rich, red juice that has been drawn out too far With tainted water, Or like a piece of string, pulled taut for so long that it cannot snap back into its original, unspoiled shape.
In her wearied sigh I hear all of her unspoken truths; All of the things which she has never said but that need saying anyway. The girl across the room is my friend. Her voice is like a song I know all the words to, Her face is as familiar to me as my own.
In the brightness of her smile I see a warrior, And in the melody of her laughter I hear my imperfect saviour. Where there was once desperation and despair, There is now a golden spark of hope. In my own tired sigh, I hear a future for the first time; All of the dreams which I have never followed, But that need following anyway. The girl across the room is everything, And I am nothing.
Written at a time when all I could see was death and her eyes.