Her eyes shined brighter than all the lights
on the Christmas tree.
Her lips chapped, but so alive I thought
they'd talk to me.
Her red hair swinging to the wind,
waving me goodbye.
Her delicate hands, her pale face and her tired voice,
reminded me of the coldest winters.
Her stories are full of sadness, sorrow and grief
and they always make me picture of her
being lonely in a tiny room,
trying to find where she went wrong.
She speaks to me with feelings
and I listen with passion
as if her words are going to be
her biggest promise to me.
She's fragile and she doesn't hide it,
she needs me and she lets me know every day
I come back from work.
She can't hold back her tears when she's alone,
she's afraid of what she might do to herself.
She looks at me and waits for me to understand
what she means because she's too afraid
to put her thoughts into words.
She asks me to hugs her when she needs it so badly
and then pushes me away
because she doesn't feel worthy enough
to be held.
She smiles, she makes me happy,
she cries, she hurts, she loves me,
she leaves me, she breaks my heart over and over again.
But I love her, I have always loved her.
It's Christmas, and I still love her, now and in 15 days
and in three years and for as long as she needs me to.
