I once wrote a poem
To a girl.
I loved her,
But never told her.

She moved away,
And the poem was undelivered.
I still have it
In my top desk drawer.

I await the day,
We meet again,
So that I can give it to her,
And watch her read.

Maybe if I'm lucky
She'll smile,
That golden smile,
And be with me.

I know she won't.
She won't smile,
She won't say thanks,
She won't respond any way.

I met her in the eigth grade,
And I loved her since.
I watched her,
Learning her ways.

I saw her go away,
Three times she has left me now.
The first with another boy,
The day before I would ask her out.

She moved in the spring,
I remember well,
For as she left, I waved,
And she waved back.

She returned from that long trip,
But she'll return no more,
For on that day, I was drunk,
Or so I was told, I don't remember it that well.
All I have left is a fleeting dream of her face,
And a bloodied dent in my hood.