The walls a bare blue,

Nothing to decorate them.

Furniture white and broken.

Clothes piled on the dresser,

A box of books and a few trinkets,

Adorn the desk.

No pictures,

No plaques,

Nothing to show,

Who the person is,

That anyone lives there.

A girl walk in,

Average height,

Skinny,

Dark blonde.

She has scabs all over her face,

Ams,

And legs.

She wears a plain black t-shirt,

Jeans,

Boots.

She carries a knapsack,

On her back.

She sits at the desk,

Pulls out a green spiral bound notebook,

Turns to a fresh page,

Begins to write.

SHe writes about things lost,

Saddness pouring onto the page.

She pours her heart out,

Creating a poem,

Long and sad.

A women's voice comes,

Through the open door.

It is calling the girl,

So goes to it.

Leaving her notebook open.

A man, tall skinny, dark blonde,

Comes in the room,

Reading the poem,

He starts to cry.

He leaves,

After laying the poem back down.

Days pass before anyone enters again.

The mother,

She sees the poem,

She starts to cry.

For her daughter is lost,

But remembered for her poems.