You're used to seeing that face of stone.
You're used to trying and ending up alone.

What you do not notice are the soft roses that bloom on her cheek
When you compliment her. And when you insult her, the rain in her eyes that leak.

Do you not hear the woodpecker, caged in her ribs, when you come near?
Or feel the frost on her skin when you pretend not to care.

You believe the weeds of lies that force their way through her cherry lips.
And when you charm another,  you don't see the red marks in her palm (the size of pips).

But the question on your tongue you would never allow to escape,
And the honest answer she would not tell you until it's too late.