The last time I saw her, she was a ghost.
Long, thin frame, and skin as pale as snow.
Her dark hair fell on her face, a mask she hid behind.
It felt too soon to part ways.
My arms held her; she did not say a word.
“You can stay,” I tried.
“You know I can’t,” she said, as soft as a mouse.
Her sweet sound of a voice was my vice.
I will miss the sound of her voice,
as well as her dark hair,
and long, thin frame.
I will miss her laugh that comes now and then,
the light in her eyes as she talks of dance class,
the black of her nails,
the boots on her feet.
I will miss the way her smile grows when I say a word wrong,
the way she gets lost in books,
the way she needs to hold my hand at all times,
the way she plays with my hair.
I will miss our long talks in the light of the moon,
each kiss she gives me,
each look in my eyes.
I will miss her.