She
She had a penchant for romanticism,
In a lonely cloud, she’d see a butterfly,
In a teardrop, emotions trapped in a prism,
With her, there was never a moment dry.
I saw her on a Thursday afternoon,
Snaking her fingers through her sunlit hair,
Humming a sweet and happy tune,
Twirling on the grass with her feet bare.
She was the embodiment of tranquillity,
A light soul filled with grace,
Sent to heal my insanity,
With a halo giving out protective rays.
Then she saw me looking, and smiled,
And the butterflies in my stomach went wild,
Her eyes were little pools of honey,
That had never seen any agony.
In my head, I was writing her a sonnet,
Like Pa wrote to Ma right after he hurt her,
She was the new bee in my bonnet,
The image of her face will never be a blur.
Ma had left; Pa had drunk himself to death,
My world started closing in on her,
I would love her until my last breath,
I was not a lonely girl anymore.
To her, I poured my heart out,
Bruised by a million lies,
I said all that I felt out loud,
And looked deep into those kind eyes.
But she did not return my passion,
Kindness morphed into shock and disgust,
Pity took the place of compassion,
She had shattered my trust.
Before leaving that living hell,
I took her to the forest to let her go,
To bid her farewell,
To let her be free.
Eight decades later,
I still remember her sunlit hair,
I wonder what life could’ve been for us,
Had she survived that day in the forest,
Had that branch not slit her throat in two,
Had she just loved me like I loved her.
Preferido o celebrado por...
