Unwritten - unfinished

I know a girl,
crazy, I know,
whose heart and soul,
are somewhat of a mystery.

Her loss is irrevocable,
blank expressions,
cracks in her façade.

Her hair, black as night,
formed by the wind,
like a crashing wave at midnight.

Originating from the same storm cloud,
remnants clearly seen - marked - elsewhere on her body.
Her story, told through her scars.

Their effaced remains,
stand stoic, contrast to her skin;
stories written over time.

Silence, is all you'll hear,
written through the wind;
as it passes by, tears may fall,
their presence overbearing.