He's Not Coming

Her hair was falling out its elaborate knot,

As her running mascara started to clot,

She smoothed out her dress of silk,

Noticing the corsage was starting to wilt.

She heaved out a desolate sigh,

As she thought back to His cruel lie,

"I'll be there," He'd said, "Count on that."

Why did she trust him, that slimy rat?

The darkness now hung above her head,

She was cold, but unmoving, as her limbs felt like lead,

Disappointment filled her to the core,

It was then her father opened the door.

With typical ignorance he stated The Fact,

But she ignored him, glaring at her compact,

She had told herself it can't be true,

Now she whispered that this day he'd rue.

She wondered if anything could worsen the pain,

And so began the cliché; it started to rain,

She waited for Him for another whole hour,

Before stomping in, feeling without pride and dour.

Up to her room she went running,

As she screamed to herself, "He's not coming!"