For years I lived across from a girl.
She sat in her window almost everyday.
She’d smoke for hours while reading through what I always assumed to be poetry.
She always seemed as the more in depth type.
And someday’s I’d see her light on until dawn,
because of course, I don’t sleep too well these days either.
She would always seem so anxious, pacing around.
Sad music would play for hours, I even swore I heard a few soft cries some times.
However, some times the music would be joyous and you’d hear laughter.
She’d sit in her backyard on her swing, still rotting her lungs away.
And if she was alone, she’d have a book in her hand.
Sometimes she wasn’t, and I don’t exactly know which hurt worse.
I never actually knew her, I couldn’t even conjure up a name for something as beautiful
as she was.
When I’d see someone else touch her, my skin would burn.
One sunny day I smoked one of my own cancer sticks and watched her
run around with her dog and then just collapse on the ground.
She seemed genuinely happy, which made me smile.
I felt happy for a soul I did not even know, how absurd is that?
Then fall came one year, I didn’t see her on her deck with a mug like usual.
Then spring came and still no sign of my beloved stranger.
I started to miss seeing her, even when she seemed a mess.
Because sometimes I’d be a mess too, so in a way, we weren’t alone.
On June 16th, I decided to skim the paper anxiously waiting to see that
light come on.
With a mug of black coffee and a camel blue for breakfast, the details of that
morning feel heavy in my mind.
But the light didn’t come on.
Teenage suicide, 18, overdose.
With a picture of the beautiful Jane Doe,
who’s real name was Juliet Montgomery.
Oh my Juliet, if only you saw me.
If only she knew I was there.
As I watched moving trucks take apart what was once a home.
And new neighbors move in, my heart aches with what never was.
Wondering if only she knew, if only I could’ve helped her.
If only someone helped her.
I’m so sorry Juliet.