Are you "you" enough yet?

First thing I notice:

her eyes.

They flit

about the room,

pale and questioning;

she’s filtering

truth

from my words,

mining

them for gold.

She holds up white hands:

empty—

nothing

of value

(to her)

in my speech.

I can’t

convince her

other-wise.

So I listen.

Hair falls

chaotic

across her shoulders:

a fine mist

of rusty disorder

that mirrors

her thoughts.

She pulses with

an urgent desire:

to love,

to be loved!

Nothing more

but

everything else.

Her happiness

has pooled

silver

at her feet;

it slips through

my hands,

dissipates into

tile.

She doesn’t notice that it’s gone.

Or maybe she does,

but this façade

so carefully built

drains her;

replaces joy

with metallic smile,

cold logic,

aloof cool.

I want to shake her--

(doesn’t she know?)

wrap her in warmth

(how can she not?)--

bathe her soul

in healing balms

of belief.

She’s too far gone.

I can see it

in her eyes—

there’s too much

of her

tucked behind them.

The more

I reach,

the further

she runs,

the deeper

she hides,

wrapping herself

in play-pretend

disguised

as reality.

And when she

turns into the blackness,

I cry.