He loved her because she was poetry in a mixed up, tragic sort of way.
Her beauty was a clumsy one, the hair that fell into her eyes, her makeup smudged, the haphazard way her clothes were always half-on as if she'd just had sex.
He loved her eyes that looked like moonlight.

He loved her because thunderstorms made her cry.
Because she was the most beautiful sonnet in the form of a woman.
Because her smile broke his heart.
And when he was sad, she just held his hand, and somehow he was healed.
He loved her because she found beauty in everything.
She could be amazed by the beauty of the way drops of sun melted across her chest as she raised her head in the morning.

She found the rain prolific and it inspired her to sing.
When she was alone, all she needed was a pen and the stars. She left poetry on the walls, in places blocked by shadows or bookshelves.
He loved the way she always smelled like she'd just come in from the rain. He loved her heart and what she held inside.
And he never told her any of this.
And she cried when he was gone, away with girls whose beauty was announced the second they walked in the room. You could smell their sex appeal. Their hair was dyed and ironed and perfect. Their eyelashes were manufactured. Their smiles were fake. Their bodies were thin and tan.
And she cried when he described how they smelled, like flowers or fruits.

The bright lights reflect in the broken surface of the bathwater.
Droplets of water that cling to her eyes may or may not be tears.
The ghosts of her sadness are close at hand. She can put her face in the water and suddenly she can forget about her past.
Suddenly it's not about her problems.
It's about struggling to breathe.
Maybe this is what it takes to remind her that she still wants to live.