If ever he had thought to look

Very deep within—

If, once upon a time, he had simply

Peeled back her skin—

He would have seen the poetry

Buried amidst her veins,

Deep within her nerves and muscles,

In the form of pain.

He would have known exactly why

She chose to rarely speak,

If, at her heart itself,

He had taken a simple peek.

He would have seen the colour of her soul—

Which was far from grey—

And why it seemed, at any given moment,

That she would just run away.

He might have one day grown to love

Her buried poetry,

But he had never read her poems—

He had never heard her plea.