Your touch is so soft, it's barely a whisper.
Only a breath to her callused skin,
battened by the wind.
Light as a feather,
while she's tattered leather.
So silly, really.
She can only wonder if you know--
if you did, wouldn't you go?
And wouldn't those sideways glances and scattered words
mean nothing more than before?
Why does she even wonder? To what does this amount to,
when even now,
she's going under?
It's a pleasant dream, but so much less than it seems.
A pretty thought to entertain,
but if it's all just lithium to her pain;
it isn't fair.
And anyway, you're not even looking there.
I wish I was beautiful.
But if I'm not, what do you see?