She liked to write poems
and she liked peonies.
A pretty girl,
in a strange way, though;
you had to look twice
before you could see it.
Her jet black hair
came to her shoulders.
She had a laugh
like a crisp autumn night.
She left every mirror
with red lipstick hearts
and her smile seemed to say,
I don't want to fight.
Death was sudden
at age thirty-five
and I keep her inside
like a flower that’s pressed
and hidden away
in some old yellowed book.
I don’t want to love her
and somehow I do,
but you have to look twice
before you can see it.