She was beautiful but
she was sad.
And I know you think this is just another
poem about a girl and it is but
I just need to tell someone about how
loved she was now that she
can’t hear me.

And I don’t think she ever could,
not when I told her I
liked her hair not when I
held her hand not even when I
kissed away the tears on her
freckled cheeks as she looked at me with
those eyes so haunting they keep me awake at night,
all her brilliance beaten and caged and it showed
whenever she smiled but I knew she was somewhere else.

And at some point she
retreated into herself,
a golden castle dark inside, a
much-touched body that had felt the caresses of
many a passing hand
now a prison of skin that
repulsed her.

And the boys still looked at her in the halls
and the men still looked in the street.
They still reached for her,
touched her but
she never felt it never even
knew how they dreamt of the feel of her phantom body
on theirs.

And it wasn’t long before
she slipped through my fingers too.
And it’s funny how I thought I knew her best,
thought I wasn’t like the rest of them
and yet I never expected the call, the message from her
crying and saying
forgive me, I
hope you can and the drop
of the receiver from her shaking hand and
where was I?
In my
car with
roses on the seat next to me and a
sad song on the radio and the
stupid thought that I alone could
make her better.