she wore a tragic smile that could tell you she was deaf to the melody that she was, just as blind to the light she spilt that helped others sail home and as insulated to her warmth which she lent all but she had an explosive control over the controlled explosion that she was.
A cold fire to dip her numb bruises in.
An inarticulate logophile in expressing what she never knew she felt.
she was an unsung note in an unwritten song that’d get left behind every time because it was too true for all those who are involved – the writer, the singer, the pianist and the audience; too true to be true.
she was that kind of light that was everywhere but went unnoticed all the time because she had no choice but that to be seen without being noticed, to be heard without having to sing to be understood without a need to express, to love without a necessity of being loved; she was something born to the love of a metaphor and a paradox. she was everything she wasn’t. she didn’t possess a thing she had.
she was that kind of a presence that’s felt even when she wasn’t present. she saw beauty where we see not a thing. she was a wonder bored with herself. she had a beauty she couldn’t see nor feel; only be felt.
Never did she come to speak of things she believed in, maybe she felt her faith alone was enough as it was without anyone else’s approval.
she was so delicately potent, so deliciously complex, so decidedly different.
her words were her only valuables and she wasn’t afraid to use them.
she often wrapped herself in them phrases she wrote to the world, pitying it, and walked in the bone-rusting breezes of solitude, feeling sorry for it and the world never looked past them sympathies, never past what she let it, and concluded her bootless and let her walk on, boot-less, her bare feet kissing condolences to what we call the universe for it never could tell them what she was and she never would.