When I saw her the first time,
I didn't know what I saw, or what to call her.
She was beautiful—
but not in a way you could describe.
For that you'd need a phrase or a word,
but no dictionary holds the letters,
that could possibly spell her.
You can see her, feel her,
but never write or speak about her.
The only tangible thing left to do,
is just to imagine—
somewhere in the big, old world,
she exists, like a hidden gem,
whose existence can never be proven.
It was a wedding, yet I was in a dilemma:
should I see the bride or should I see her?
Like a man, I did what I could do—
that is, to take a break from living,
just to watch her, admire her from afar,
knowing I would never see her again.
I guess she knew it too—
for she was aware of my presence,
yet did not move or flinch; she stood still,
as if a silent permission to continue,
being a witness to her charisma,
perhaps giving me one final chance,
a fated opportunity to paint her,
to write her down in my memory,
as a portrait of that special someone.