The problem was
It was too perfect:
The tasteful carelessness,
The learned diffidence,
The studied inquiries
That held in reserve
Smiling eyes
To infect one's soul.
There was a certain unearthly air about her,
As if neither failure
Nor success could touch her
As she moved through time. Life
Was what she lived for,
The days and hours, even minutes, of comaraderie,
Of jesting and arguing and laughter
And of love.
She loved our lives. The future could wait
Just a while longer.