She wrote about how to write a poem.
Ironic instructions in tiny letters,
Scratched out and scrawled in,
Words flowing as she flew,
Further and further away from me.

And in her words I put myself,
Imagine she might be writing with me in mind,
When she mentioned the girl she'd only just met,
with limited memories,
Of huge significance,
but also possibly no significance at all.
Because who really knows.
It's not the event itself that's important,
it's the value we place upon it all in hindsight.

But I can say, that every moment with her
Has held some form of significance to me.
Each time we've held hands,
It's felt monumental in some way.
And each time i've seen her face,
- all three occasions -
the light in her eyes has seemed profound.

And i don't know if it really has to mean anything
but i'm glad to have met her,
to have discovered this connection,
As strangely brief as our interaction may be.
Better to have known her little,
than to have missed her all my life.