I used to sit on the last bench,
Just to see her sitting at the front.
From there, I could see it all,
Avoiding the need to confront.
I could see her come, I saw her leave,
I saw her talk, I saw her weave.
And yet, as a mundane thing to do,
I always kept a flower upon my sleeve.
Her back faced me, it looked so fine,
Delicately carved into a work of art.
And I wished to have a little more time,
As love flickered slowly in my heart.
She never knew me, and I knew her much—
My favorite doll, I longed to touch.
Yet I skipped what I intended to say,
Knowing too well she might fade away.