That punch in the gut feeling that knocks all the air from your lungs and produces the sensation of a rib pirecing both a lung and your heart because you can't breathe and your heart may explode and you may even cry blood because you find out the person you love most in the world, who has always loved life to the fullest, who, well into adulthood, had a child-like view of death as something far off and nebulous, that this happy, joy-filled being suffers so silently you never knew until filling out a doctor's form that he longs to die.
Fragile
An impression:
She is a song.
Some unstrung chord
An expression
In a world everyone knows.
The one who doesn’t belong.
Dancing in the shadows.
Maybe:
She is a story.
Bright eyes and a smile.
Worlds of words
Unfurled at her feet.
Knowledge makes her whole;
Wisdom makes her feel
Incomplete.
At last,
The thought:
She is not a poem.
She is poetry.
Wrapped and ready,
An abstract interpretation.
Finding the meaning of everything.
Nothing.
Anything...
Humble expression of soul.
Another beauty lost in obscurity.
Another heart break, beaten yet still beating, aching to be whole.