she.

what was she but a prayer? what was she, if not a song?

her tiny cries rise and fall in crescendo,

her heart hums low and light, it thrums like a gong.

what was she, but a sermon? an opportunity for all that could be set right?

she was a blank canvas, a setting sail,

she was full of possibilities, each and every one burning bright.

what was she, but a hope? what was she if not a far flung dream?

the kind that sends most men to madness,

the kind that could never be fully understood nor seen.

and oh, what was she, if not a love story? what was she if not a chance?

what was she but a one in a billion, one in a million, one of the very, very last?

she was all of these and none at all. she was so very huge and so very small. she was tiny toes and pink cheeks, she was a ringing bell and a sleepless week. she was sunlight and she was rain. she was my greatest joy, she was my worst pain.

she had so many futures, so many almosts, so many could-have-beens.

so many possibilities. so many dreams. yet the end always comes,

fast, too fast to see,

and here we stand, the girl I was,

and all the things I should have been.