He looked at her the way,
The moon would have looked at the stars,
If it had the opportunity to do so,
Turning it into a stare,
A never ending one.
And how could he stop,
She was different from most people,
Her definition would fit into a poem itself,
Written by her own scars,
Which had dried by then.
Her eyes,
Seemed so vague,
That it depicted some void,
Which filled his heart instead,
A fulfilling emptiness.
Her lips didn't move much,
But when they did,
It felt like he was lost,
Neither in her words nor in her expressions,
But the way she said everything and yet something was always hidden.
Her skin never gleamed,
It was like brown cream,
And when their bodies touched,
Their was a sense of pain he felt,
By the way she wore long sleeves.
Her hair was nearly tied all the time,
And he loved it the way it was always messed,
When she bent down, there came a strand along,
And he liked it the way it fell,
'Cause it looked better than the tears that she silently shed.
But now she was not crying silently,
Nor where her lips quietly moving,
Her dull eyes were now closed,
And her skin looked even pale,
As he held her hand tight like he always did.
She was laying there,
With her own sad smile,
Like some peace she had got,
And all the pain taken within,
In her grave,
As he kissed her once again,
And promised to do it every year,
Staring her still,
After all he couldn't stop,
Even after she was dead.
