My friend (jokingly) asked me to write a poem about how perfect she was. I took the first two stanzas from something I wrote when I was still in sixth form and expanded it. Not particularly polished or of great literary standing, but I liked it, and so did she. So here it is.

Wandering, floating, lost, I travel through
This necropolis. This paradise of
Lonely hearts and broken dreams, a wasteland
Of my own design, home to nothing but
Memories. I hear them when I sleep. Voices,
Fleeting, but still, inarguably, there.

I am not alone in this quiet night.
They swim with me in this, the great ocean
Of lost hope. For what they are searching for
I do not know. I am not sure that they
Do either. Wandering aimlessly with
Me. Where we came from, where we are going;
All that matters is the journey.

And then, there is the girl.

The girl is like nothing else in this place.
In the land of moving, shifting, changing,
Flowing, flying, growing, dying, the girl
Is still. In this dark cave, where the stars are
All going out, where a billion dim
Flickers are all we will know, the girl is
Radiant. The girl is perfection, and
As I gaze at the girl, the girl and her
Eyes pass blankly over me. All she can
See is the city, not the angels. I
Am invisible. And all that could have
Ever been, in that moment, is now lost.

I pull myself back if only to try
Again to shout scream beg for a second
Chance to catch the eye of the girl but it
Is too late I am swept along with the
Others and we are going and going
And never looking back because I know
If no when I do all I will find is


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