Something about her
makes you curious.

Her beauty
turns many heads
as she glides across a room.
Her laugh,
a mellifluous sound,
envelopes you like mist
on a winter morning.
She has pearly, neat handwriting
that leans in a different direction
every other day.

She is also kind.
An incorrigible affinity to broken wings,
she likes to fix people
and their problems (on occasion).
Is her heart full of compassion?
Or is she trying to escape
her own life by finding the solution
to any problem
other than her own?

Cloaked in anonimity she walks the halls
Cloaked in solitude and an aura that repels
She walks in heels, clipping the wooden floor
She is an enigma, she is known, she is the girl that no one knows
Knowing her is a privilege, it means she acknowledges you
You, look at the long hair dyed to hide, her lips painted to entice and repel.

The blood red lips, black hair, heels and sneers, cloak her
Talk to her and she may answer, she may just walk on
Ignoring the occasional stare she melts into herself
*****, is whispered, she inwardly smiles, searching for a face
She wants to be new. She wants to be herself.
She wants to be alone, she wants to be in a group
She wants to be somewhere new.
She wants to be with him, but, she never will
She knows the meaning of being lonely
It's her cloak.

He wrote me poems,
his heart on a page
filled with black
covered in syllables longing to reach me.
My heart was open,
raw and forced,
by the claws of heartache.
His words felt like liquor,
stinging the scrapes,
then numbing my heart,
drunk in the peacefulness of comfort.

He wrote me poems,
but I could not read them.
My mind was elsewhere,
lost in the memories and the hope for a tomorrow,
and
I slipped away,
broke his heart,
the page went blank.

He doesn't write me poems,
but this one is for him.
For every leaf that falls,
I think of him,
every snow that dusts the grass,
I remember him.
I will write him poetry,
to cover up the guilt I feel.
I hope he reads this,
to not understand
the enigma of love
friendship
hope
*im sorry