She is a lost soul.

She wonders, yet she still could not fathom the urge to be made whole again. And then she wanders, a soul thirsty for new beginnings.

She was looking down at the big city—they were so alive, heavy breathing's can be heard around; footsteps were rushing—smiles plastered on their faces, yet they were so alone.

They were made out of different stories—but there is only one thing they must find and feel, to be found and be whole. Besides, they were not so different—if she is a lost soul, what can hinder her to find her one true love?

And then there's him—he was made out of soft pillows, he was an another poem she's excited to read. He was an ink—giving another color to a blank page; he was a story she will never get tired of: to read.

She was so eager to see him every time. To feel him—to look at his heart; yet he was an almost to its completion—and then there's her, so broken—humiliated, hurt and blinded.

There's no space left for her. And then she wandered again. She tried so hard to forget him—she thought he was the one who will complete everything that is lost and broken; yet she was left with no other choice: to be a wandering soul, again.

Maybe she was made exactly like that—no other form of strings will tie the knot, other than herself.