He.
He never does.
He never gives it to her.

the crumpled love note in his pocket,
that she wanted nothing more than to recieve,
the one he was sure she would never want.

It turns to lint,
while her hopes,
those turn to ash.

She has written a dozen like it,
kept in a box, tucked under her bed.

Neat scribbles on tear stained paper,
explaining how she will never love another,
quite like she loves him.

She sees him everywhere.
In the ocean that matches his eyes,
and inside the most lonesome of nights,
that she can't help but feel forsaken in.

You can call this her personal plague,
reminding her of all they should have been,
but will never become.

He may be red the color of a martyr,
but she's pink: a graceful misfortune.