She’s no one I know.
I can feel her blond hair brushing your shoulder and the heat of her temple where hers touches yours. I tell myself she’s someone’s old friend. I tell myself she’s the gal who brings a laugh with your palm tree inspired mai-tai fix. Or maybe she just bought the last cold round of beer.
So what? Maybe she loves your kind of music or just found herself there needing to be found by somebody honest, somebody more than she’s had? She’s somebody’s old friend or your neighbor or maybe his wife, hmmm?
It doesn’t matter. Can’t matter. Can’t be learned. I can’t ask.
Keep me in my blinders the size of Texas. Social media doesn’t come with a soothing narrative. Stalking is for the off-balanced mess.
We feel what we feel, be damned.
And we ache where we hurt, until dawn.
I’m strong and I’m solid. I’m a force of the heart.
I’m the one who cares, but can’t.
She can’t ask for more when she offers so little.