She only knows her talks with Death at night
kisses from her curtains as she peers out her window.
Her eyes like the dawn; dewy and lonesome.
Her hair like dying embers; a fire from years ago.
Only her bedsheets are listening when she whispers her woes.
She alone is so much more than a human.
She is a book; a ballad; a painting that speaks paragraphs.
Lips silent as death, yet a stare loud like the morning sun.
She is a girl; a star; a constellation.
She is a fight; a fire; a mistake unto herself.
Alone she undoes, and takes, and destroys, and unravels what has been mended.
She misses her talks with sleep at night
kisses from someone as she closes her eyes, dewy and in love.
Her hair nothing more than a spark without a past.
Open ears are listening when she whispers her woes.
She, alone, is more than a human.
She is a book; a ballad; a girl I once knew.