She was one of a kind or so was said,
Then she was no different from the rest.
Of all she said and did or was done,
Each had a flaw, every single a copy.
It was first in her name.
The way she spoke, the way she was.
Then in her thoughts and her speech,
Soon drilled into her social circle and way of life.
The way she woke up in the morning, slept at night,
The way she laughed, clapped or slapped a five.
In the way she carried herself,
Devoid of grace, filled with life.
Her flaws he saw, both big and small.
The misdoings true and the could have been.
The wound that worsened and the scars she covered,
All was what had been before; she was no different.
The innocence in her laughter, the love.
Hurt and forgiveness in her eyes, and
The marks that drew a flower unreal.
The scars now a little less distinct,
The dip in the corner of her eyes,
The dip in her skin, far from fine.
The curve of her face, curl of her hair.
The weighed down zest in her walk,
The evanescent life flickering in her chest.
The perfectly contoured self-esteem,
And poorly dressed bruises.
The way she would stare into a distance and smile,
At the memories that brought smiles and forget the pain.
The way her mind raced out-of-bounds, and
Thoughts far too many to be penned down.
He saw all but none of that,
He read all but none of hers.
He wanted all but none that was hers.
He wanted different but not her.
She wasn’t different, she was one of a kind.
She wasn’t the same, she was every bit of all.
She wasn’t what life gave her but what she to it,
She wasn’t a matter in a form to morph, but a visible disappearance.