Starlight from a bottle  
To drown my tears, liquid sorrow
Seeping through my veins, filling
Gaping black holes with empty memories
Of your love.

Watch the clock with blank eyes,
Seconds ticking past, a wasted life
Lost in memories of sunshine and pianos,
Nothing but memories now.

I wonder if she knows,
that when she speaks
with a voice
low and smooth,
I become ashamed of my own.

I wonder if she knows
I watch her sometimes
and envy each breath.
I admire everything about her...
her poetry is simple but stunning
her laugh infectious
her smile is kind
and her eyes are bright.

I heard about her,
years before,
and had a picture in my mind.
I know her now
and the picture has not changed
if only to make it better.

I envy her confidence
I admire her every movement.
If she were famous I'd own all her movies
and do what I do now,
watch and learn
and try to be as great as she.
Her talent is unwasted
as all who know her love her.
How is it she's so grand?

The boys, they look,
they see,
they know she is the most beautiful girl in the room
they know they want her
they know,
as I know,
that she's worth it.
that she deserves it.
that she should be happy.

I wonder if she knows,
this poem is about her.
I wonder if she knows
I wish I could be even an inch similar to her.
It's not cruel envy and jealousy I hold for her,
but complete admiration for the way she carries herself.
She speaks her mind
and shows emotion
clever and funny,
she walks with regality
and is oh so gorgeous.

How is it she seems so perfect?
So poised and gentle and witty-
in not the most poetic terms
I basically think she's really cool,
and wish I could carry myself
in the profound,
glamourous,
respectable,
admirable way in which she does.

How is it she'd ever care to be my friend?
Oh the way she walks,
the way she speaks,
the way the other girls envy
the way the boys look
the way the teachers admire,
she's unafraid to announce her sorrows and fears,
she enters a room with a fierce glamour
and makes her presence known,
as, for her, it should be.

Oh, she is glorious.

and I admire her so.

I caught glimpse
of her between
double maths
and English Lit;

eyes feasted on her
as she passed,
she looking,
smiling,

her head turning,
then she was gone,
and I walked on;
but all through

English Lit,
the teacher
moaning on
about some Milton bit,

some lost paradise
or else was
something like,
but I thought on

about she who
passed me by
with that look
in her eye,

that sway
of her hips,
that swish of skirt,
that glimpse

of white socks,
and such,
and all too much
for Milton’s loss

of this or that
or teacher’s talk
or scribbled chalk
words upon the board,

my mind was fixed
on the sway
of hips
that caught my eye,

the smile of lips,
thrilling me
from toes
to finger tips.