she

bus rattle

wakes me

strings of bright lights

go by

and there she is

with in the window

mimics my movements

as a shadow

as a ghost

sly eye never off me

she is every surface

that captures reflections

that captures light

what is she to me?

an unopened letter?

an unfulfilled dream?

an unexpressed desire?

she cries, too

I’ve watched her

does she have compassion

within her isolated, one dimensional world?

can she wear flowers

in her hair?

she

 

 

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I like first person narratives.

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