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