She was sweet and misunderstood,
naive, attention seeking, but, soft,
self destructive and abused.
She was me, untamed.
I am not sure when it happened.
There was no time of death,
no glowing moment.
She just walked out
in the middle of the night
with only the clothes on her back
and some unfinished poetry
left crumpled in the corner.
There were too many years to count,
too many instances when love
was an afterthought.
There have been days
I thought I heard her
tap, tap, tapping on the window,
but when that door closed, I knew
it had to stay shut.
I catch her sneaking adjectives
in a perfectly constructed sentence,
playing violins to my heart.
with being a chapter
she wants to be the book.