Those purple framed glasses,
she wore as a challenge to school,
It was then I saw her first, being scolded,
and thought, her glossy hair looked cool.
The staircase where she sat with her gang,
talking to all who climbed up and down
the bitter whispers from the envious girls
equaled the drooping stare of guys around.
I was her pet doll in her final years
protected, loved and mentored upon
it was a rare privilege people would tell
and i valued her presence as my gourd.
There is no day when i miss her not
or feel her words of caution in my head
And also the one last kiss on my cheeks
just hours before she was found dead.
some say she was killed out of rage
some say she did it on her own,
only I know that neither is the case
she was my angel, she just returned home.
Prompted @ Big Tent Poetry