Her

She was my friend.

Blonde, green-eyed,

Fair skinned and delicate.

She was perfect in more ways then one.

And I fell for her.

 

She was a flower,

Beautiful and dainty.

She'd bloom for you if you listened and laughed with her.

But like a flower,

You couldn't pluck her.

For when flowers are plucked,

They eventually wither and die.

 

So you don't pluck her.

You sit and watch her grow.

You stare in awe at her beauty, basking in it.

So you listen to her and wait.

 

I held her once.

I held her close.

I knew she'd never be mine;

not today,

not tomorrow,

or the next day,

or even the one after that.

She was so warm and so soft.

She showered me with kisses

And she gave me lots of hugs.

However much I wanted her,

I couldn't bring myself to it.

However much I loved her,

However much she didn't know,

I couldn't ask her out.

 

There's and old story about the moon loving the sun so much,

He'd die every morning just to let her breathe.

Meanwhile, the moon asked for nothing in return.

 

I am the moon,

And she is the sun.

They're kept separate for reasons unspoken.

This poem is about: 
Me

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