Everything about her was poetry.
From the way she walked to the way she smiled.
The way she was a mystery to all, even for me.
The way she looked out of the window like she wasn't present; where did she go in those hours?
The way she freed air from her lungs.
The way one day she was gone.
The way I knew she wouldn’t be back.
She was poetry, and all good poetry only lasts for a while.