Poetry: Between the Lines

I fell in love with a girl once,
Whose name I never knew.
I never saw her face,
Though I'm sure it was lovely,
The sort of soft, quiet beauty
That lingers in the mind
With a smile that hints
Of unspoken secret
And whispered promise.
Nor did I ever look into her eyes,
Though I can see them when I close mine,
Bright and deep,
With the faint touch
Of a sadness long past.

I found her in the pages of a book
I bought at a secondhand store.
She was there, in the margins,
In a handwriting that managed to somehow
Be both tight and flowing,
Adding things, here and there,
As though conversing with the novel.

The book, which was mediocre, at best,
Became a vehicle,
Nothing more,
For my getting to know her,
Her wit, her humor,
Twice, her pain,
Never overt, but neither hidden,
Worn with the humble truth
Of the survivor.

When it was over,
When there was no more,
I put the book aside,
It's narrative fading,
But not ours,
Fanciful as it was.
She was a dream,
Ephemeral and sweet
Forever out of reach,
The girl between the lines.