The girl that loved me

Ann-Marie was as a love letter, written in cursive. By a girl struck by cupid's arrow. Neatly folded, wrapped with a ribbon, sprayed with a perfume smelling of roses. A letter so perfect and never sent, a letter so perfect it still has her scent. Taken by the wind, paper rustling on bustling streets.

Ann-Marie was as a love letter, crumpled on the ground. When somebody would pick her up and read her, she gave them all the love her letters had to give. Then they'd throw her in the wind. One day as she was flying through, I found her too.

Ann-Marie was as a love letter, taken by my hands. I did my best to smooth her edges, not let her fly alone again. I read her as I fell asleep and in the morning light. I never knew her words were meant truly for my eyes. As hard as I tried to hold on to her tight, the wind took her one day, far away.

Ann-Marie was as a love letter, in the wind again. Only as it took her did I see my name. Now she is eternally somewhere in the sky, I hope somewhere high, away from cruel eyes. I always will remember her, looking at the skies.