She had a way with words,
But they were never heard.
Not by those who loved her,
Not by those who no longer were.
Still every night she wrote;
Put her heart down in simple notes,
And waited for someone to come.
Someone who would make her heartstrings thrum.
At night, so quiet and desolate,
Her little steps so delicate
Against the cold floor.
And her life is a bore,
Passing her by.
A girl, oh so shy
To share her thoughts,
Still happiness she sought.