She was beautiful.
Her eyes told stories; joy and pain and passion.
Her sighs were screams stifled by "I'm sorry"
She danced alone on somedays.
On others she was special.
A mistake evolved into pleasure.
She was passion.
Never kisses and hearts and initals scribbled in notepads.
Never a poem or song written.
Never permanent.
As short lived as a breath;
taken and given back just as quickly as oxygen
But never as important.
As temporary as a sticker on plastic, to them.
She was pretty to look at
Too sensitive
"How do you touch her without her sticking to your fingers?"
You try.
She knows.
She sticks to her self.
You get upset.
You roll her up and throw her away.
She was pretty to look at.
A temporary tattoo; you knew you didn't want her when you got her.
She was a moment.
She was beautiful
Her eyes told stories; joy and pain and passion...
