For those who are idealized and put on a pedestal but never loved and never enough to stay around for:
The Siren
She walks like waves beneath the moon,
A song unsung, yet known too soon,
With eyes that pull the tide to shore—
A face that sailors die before.
They chase her voice through crowded air,
And swear there’s magic tangled there,
A glance, a smile—an ache begun,
As if the stars had turned to one.
Each heart she haunts, she doesn’t try;
They come like moths, they burn, they fly.
They write her poems, dream her name,
Then vanish when they win the game.
But she’s no ghost, no wicked flame,
No ocean spell, no beast to tame.
She wants a hand to touch her skin
And not just touch but love within.
So once or twice, she let one stay,
She let the moonlight fade to day.
She whispered truths, she dared to trust—
She gave the gold, not just the dust.
And when she bloomed—no longer muse—
The dream dissolved, she’d always lose
That fevered shine, that edge, that thrill—
They missed the myth; they missed the kill.
For love, it seems, is far too plain
When mystery is what they feign.
They wanted songs, not voice or breath.
They fled her heart like fearing death.
Now silence swells beneath her skin,
She draws them close, but won’t let in.
For every time she loved them back,
They vanished down the starless black.
She sings again, but not for love—
She sings to call, not hold, or shove.
She is the sea, the flame, the sky—
The one they want, but can’t know why.
And if she weeps, no one will know—
Her tears are salt, her smile the show.
She learned to keep them near she must
Remain a myth they cannot trust.