what she wrote

it wasn't her
legs,
lean and tanned,
long as a summer day.
or her eyes,
tea brown.
it had nothing to
do with
the way her lips
formed when
she smiled.
no.
it wasn't how
her hair looked
in the sunlight,
or
the way her
hands lay
upon the table
folded
onto themselves,
softly.
it was none of
that. it was something
else.
it was the one
poem she wrote,
then said,
that's me.