Was it the curve of his sculpted cheek,
or the turn of his sensuous mouth?
Was it the arch of his raven brow,
or was it just that sultry chocolate stare?
She'd say it was everything, yet nothing at all.
She's bone-thin now, but she wears a glutton's grin;
yes, obsession both feeds and starves.
It's her greatest friend, her bitterest foe,
and the vice to which she clings.
In how many ways will she kill herself over him?
Perhaps she's waiting for the expiration of her own heart,
but I think she's just waiting for an epiphany,
for some ubiquitous being to whisper in her ear
that a lover isn't what she's missing.
Until then, I suppose she'll live and die
by the tone of his voice, by the look in his eyes,
and, of course, by her estimation of his estimation of her.
© Kerri Jenkins, December 10, 2002
