The She

She sits there at the edge of the room,
People come and go; everyone's so busy.
She's got tales to tell but no one,
Except herself to hear.

Once in a while I try to start a conversation.
But she just smiles.
We spend hours staring at the silent ceiling, the lonely walls,
the beautiful thin air - pretending to have something in common.
In her silence I find my answers.

"You've got her eyes." they said, I remember.
To that we both cry.
Her tears are camouflaged by the separation.
My palms wipe my tears and then to her help - the dust.

The wind gently knocks in and kiss my cheeks.
That familiar old kiss - something unaltered by time.
The smell of her skin still lingers in the uncared air.

We are different but still the same,
We have; but still don't have each other.
Can she hear me? "I don't know"
Can I hear her? "I just need to close my eyes."

I kiss her and the soft impression lingers 
on the frame - hung by a nail
Some seven feet from the ground.

She just smiles.
In her silence I find my Answers.