Tuesday, November 23, 2010

The Following

As I follow you through the crowd, I feel conflicted
by the terrifying possibility you don't want me to.

Suddenly reflections in shop windows display
a desperation not even earnestness can deflect.

I search for any sign at all that you might see me
not for what I stand for but maybe for who I am.

A pedestrian kind of yearning, magnified precisely
as it verges on disappearing in the traffic and the noise.

Would that my hand reach out and brush against your
hair and your cheek; just thinking it makes me weak.

I keep on walking, I pretend to not notice you.
You're a stranger, after all. And I walk into a wall.

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