Yes, she was indeed the last girl I have loved
Standing in front of me as if I was there,
With a pose that seemed so plain to the eyes of many,
Yet perfection to my eyes.
I ask, how come I could see her
At an angle in which she could not see?
Me that I adore her,
Staring at her, standing still with my
Hazy eyes of hope.
Who else would have wanted to see her like this?
Perhaps he who took
This magnificent photo of hers.
Sometimes I wonder about her smile
Why she smiles and who that smile is for.
I wonder if that smile was intentional or not
If its beauty is real or just made-up,
For the sake of photographs
And for the pleasure seeker
Who is I
Or the photographer,
But maybe, just maybe
On that moment
She was truly glad
But I could not fathom why.
As for the scene beneath the image
I see
Two people having their moment
Only by an arbitrary space
Where she stands on one end
And on the other was a window
To the eyes of many
Where I’m not the only one
Who looks through
A hundred pairs of feisty eyes
Who merely wanted their hands on her
Except for me who wanted her
For her being
Nothing else
But her
And the only thing that brings us apart
Is this window,
His window,
In which he shows us what he sees,
What he loves,
Including her


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