You could write a poem about her.
I found her in the middle of a dirty street.
And she had been crying.
Her eyes had never been seen without their redness.
She wasn’t sad.
She didn’t feel a thing.
She stared at people feeling all kinds of things.
And she would always be the bystander.
Her first kiss had done all of that.
To her. For her.
She could never really decide.
Sometimes they laughed hysterically. Oftentimes they collapsed in tearful grimaces.
There was nothing in it for her.
She evoked his hands.
Thinking about her mother, how she scrubbed and scrubbed.
He had never taught her how to live without him.
And she too, scrubbed and scrubbed, but he never left her premises.
“Portrait of a Lady in a Veil” by Thomas Mathisen (1610-1670)