AN: For obaona and Jedikma, who love Obi/Siri. Originally written as a short snippet to convince oba that she should write a poem; somehow it spawned into this. Not what I expected at all. I'm not too familiar with Siri, so I did my best. Thanks for clicking!

Loss for Words

He has never known
such filth before
when dirt has been added
to other layers of grime
in the creases formed
around his eyes –
another souvenir
of an unwanted conflict,
a life-or-death scenario
where any moment
that could be him:
another weathered
body on a foreign field.

He turns away,
seeks to purge
those thoughts
but they stick
like the dirt and grime
once fine grain
easily brushed away
but now hardened
and not even
the most thorough wash
can erase the horrors –
unthinkable scenes –
that he has witnessed
and even

Perhaps she understands –
perhaps she too
feels the weight
of soiled memories
filling cracks and crevices
of her soul
until the good times
become inseparable
from the hopeless

He calls her name –
short, rolling off his tongue
far too easily
and barely expressing
the nuances of her personality –
"Siri" –
disappearing quickly,
the vowel fading away
when he wishes
it would linger
a sweet, cheering sound –
positively connotated,
still crisp and clean.

But those useless inner criticisms
don't escape as
spoken thoughts –
built up
like the ancient dust
into a secure cage
for his opinions
and beliefs –
the true ones, not
his usual witty remarks
directed towards Anakin
or her
or others;
frothy idioms
that could never touch upon
the uncertainties within
his mind, puzzles
for the conscience.

She appears ahead
moving slowly,
a small figure –
bloodied, dirtied –
with an air of fatigue
one can only acquire
from the filth
of battle and
broken dreams;
everywhere he sees
the outward signs:
the grit, the lines
the physical remnants of
the chaos of war
in the bruise on her chin,
the blood on her suit –
for the fall from naïveté
to battered maturity
always leaves scars.

The sunlight dims,
a pale yellow glow
replaces the harsh
directional glare
as noon fades
to late afternoon –
he looks at her again
for the gentle beams
reveal more:
past the grime,
past the despair,
beauty hides in
her downcast eyes
their lids veiling
a gaze of purest blue –
and beneath her soiled face
lurks a flushed cheek
and lips longing
to smile and laugh, even
her hair
shines brighter, like
tiny strands of spun gold
under a murky
covering of filth.

Beauty in ashes,
loveliness still remains
amidst the blood,
and dirt,
and grime –
hope walking free
through the carnage
of shattered ideals.

She stops before him,
a questioning look
probing his reticence
and prodding against
the worn façade,
the mental layers
of dust protecting
his innermost thoughts.

"What do you want?"
she asks
plainly, waiting
for a commonplace reply,
his normal response –
stiff upper lip
and a smidgen of humour
preserved even among
the dead bodies
from this unending war.

He shakes his head,
wondering at the
absurdity of it all –
the phoenix rises
from the ashes
oblivious of the contrast
between its magnificent form
and the cold, harsh ruins
of that forgotten fire –
beauty, unknowing, in ashes.

He opens his mouth
gathers breath, tries
to force
the words out
but nothing comes
gagging on the empty
space he has
he struggles
for the phrases,
so precise and clear,
expressing all
that he saw -
perfection present along with desolation
and beauty visible beneath the practical Siri -
yet his thoughts retreat
and all that remain
are poor substitutions
vague ambiguities
so he swallows them,
he will not accept
the second-best,
and lapses into

"Obi-Wan? Are you on my wavelength?
Hello? Calling Jedi Kenobi from somewhere
off in deep space . . . Obi, snap out of it!"

The bleak intensity
reemerges, the bright light
concealing the beauty
and emphasizing the dirt –
the moment lost
with reality's return,
he smiles sadly and
looks away
back to the ordinary world
of ugliness and hopelessness.

"Sorry, I was
a little
lost for words."