Her name was Margo.
Her name IS Margo.
She was the last of her kind
And a mastermind at whatever she did.
She was the girl I loved in the summer of my Junior year in
She was the one who woke me up
And led me through flower fields
In order to see for the first time
Which colours made up the ones
At five in the afternoon.
But of all the colors,
The ones in her eyes
Seemed the prettiest.
Without her, my life in comparison
Seemed dull and lifeless,
Like living among newspaper articles
About stock markets and gas prices.
She was the one who helped me to smell the scents
Of early morning.
But just like the few minutes of sunrise we shared,
Margo was my miracle. If I could ask for anything
It would be to bring Margo back. But I know too well
That she would not be content living the life of sorry me
With my silence and inability to
When she herself is so good at reading the silent words
Of the divine.