Through a haze of sounds and faces,
she lost herself.
Sweat beading on her forehead,
clamming up her palms,
she took to the stairs.
Looking down,
always looking down, always ashamed.
But what of?
I always wonder,
when I see the beauty she has.
Why does no one else see it?
The tears she blinks back when she thinks no one is looking,
because no one ever is.
Except me.
But I don't exist for her,
like she doesn't exist for the others.
But inside me, she is everything.
The last thought in my mind at night,
when my worry churns in my gut and I pray that she hasn't done it yet.
Hasn't taken away the one thing that's made this world bearable and beautiful:
her life.
