A Natural Art

I lose count of the words, were whispers the only way but too soft or too vain, then could I hold back and hurt in ways speaking volumes you never knew, I would. And stare into mirrors looking for the words of a woman I wish I were. But this too moves me on to her and all she's gained for trying, a thousand pieces sometimes well put. Those I'll claim for all the worth, asking not but what is surely selfish. But I'll bear the shame for the art of a realist, for the natural wish that she never be lost, that you never forget her name.